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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651031">When the mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustlookatpictures/pseuds/ijustlookatpictures'>ijustlookatpictures</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>There's nothing else we can do [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Pacific (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Coming Out, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Flashbacks, Fluff, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Night Terrors, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Reunions, Say it with me - I cannot tag, Sexual Content, Smut, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, these boys just deserve to be happy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:15:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>102,949</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustlookatpictures/pseuds/ijustlookatpictures</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'Time is the most valuable thing a man can spend, so tell me, how are you going to spend yours?' </p><p>  <em>Life was meant to carry on when the boys arrived home from the war. But life never works out how you intend it to.<em></em></em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Merriell "Snafu" Shelton &amp; Eugene Sledge, Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>There's nothing else we can do [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721977</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>142</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hello!</p><p>I just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who has read and supported the series, I cannot tell you how much it means.</p><p>My name is blood with most of you, as it is with myself. Do I apologise? I'm not sure yet.</p><p>This fandom is utterly saturated with heart-wrenchingly phenomenal bollocks so let me toss another one into the ashes (though it lacks the phenomenal). </p><p>A heads up before we start: this is a lot rougher than the prequel. Not only does it contain sexual scenes but both Eugene and Snafu suffer from an array of ails throughout, displayed in very different ways.</p><p>Namely, Eugene suffers from virulent PTSD, especially in the earlier chapters. PTSD is a debilitating and life-destroying condition. It is not glorious nor is it broodingly stare out of the window as life fixes itself. I have tried to be as respectful as possible to the disorder and do not wish to trigger nor offend and most certainly not glamourise any issues shown within this fic.</p><p>I will outline any all triggers which each chapter may contain.</p><p>These boys deserve a chance so goddamn let's give them a go!</p><p>Best of luck x</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Contains reference to child abuse, period-typical/homophobic language and attitudes, a dubious sexual encounter and most likely a myriad of spelling mistakes!</p><p>Shot every time Merriell smirks.</p><p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">New Orleans: March, 1949</span>
</p><p>Merriell slammed the door of the building behind himself.</p><p>He tumbled down the four steps to the sidewalk in one large stride, stumbling as he hit the ground. He felt almost deliriously inebriated, struggling on, with deference to nothing but putting as much distance between himself and the doctor's office, as quickly as possible. </p><p>Paying no heed to the Mother and child crossing his path, he barged past them as he continued down the street. Choosing to even ignore her aggrieved yelp as she yanked her daughter from his frantic path. </p><p>The heavy drizzle, that had been settling in as he had entered the doctor's an hour earlier, was now lashing down upon the cobblestones, coating the street and its inhabitants with a torrent of water. </p><p>The damp pavement seeped against the worn sole of Merriell's boot, its hobnails chinked echoingly against the ground. His heavily darned socks were heavy with saturation. Wet feet were usually a trigger point; reminding him too much of his time in the Pacific. Unless he dealt with them quickly he'd be back in Okinawa by nightfall. Yet as of today, he no longer had the wherewithal to deal with such mundanities. Nor, he doubted, would he tomorrow.  </p><p>There was a screech of brakes and the honk of a vehicle as he stepped out into the road without looking. Blindly, he noticed a car screech to a halt, narrowly avoiding colliding with him. Yet he did not have the ability to so much as offer the driver the slightest acknowledgement as he launched a torrent of abuse at him out of his window, leaning heavily against his horn.</p><p>No, Merriell could only walk. Forcing one foot in front of the other as he fought against the violent urge to be sick.</p><p>He was unsure how far he had walked by the time his knees eventually buckled beneath him. He desolately sank onto a bench, his back against some portion of the Collonade, completely oblivious to the hubbub that drifted from the bustling market behind him.</p><p>The movement of the passersby, the voices of the stall owners, the chatter of eagre patrons, the smells and sounds of his beloved city all going completely unnoticed. Then again, there had been so much that gone unnoticed since his arrival home, three years earlier. He stared blankly down at his drenched boots, incredulous at the sense of calmness that washed over him.</p><p>He forced himself to breathe. Hawking air in and out of his lungs, as he desperately attempted to calm the griping nausea in his stomach. Staring blankly down at his drenched boots, incredulous at the sense of calmness that washed over him.</p><p>On second thoughts, this was... different. This feeling wasn't calmness. No, this was a numbness. A Numbness, unlike anything he had ever experienced. Not during the war, not in the aftermath of his parents or Essie or Euge...</p><p>He swallowed. </p><p>No. This numbness was utterly unprecedented to anything else in his entire twenty-six years. It was a resignation and somehow, that was even more painful than the sound of the 20:36 train that departed from Union Station every Thursday evening.</p><p>He reached into the pocket of his faded navy Deck Jacket, his dripping hand delving into the torn lining to retrieve his cigarette packet. He plucked one from the box, keeping the packaging safely tucked away in its relative dryness before raising it to his lips.</p><p>He cupped his hand over the top of the cigarette before attempting to ignite his lighter. His hands shook so violently that it was only after his third attempt that the flame spluttered to life. He raised the dismal light to the end of his smoke, catching the damp tobacco. He took in a deep drag, filling his lungs with the first satisfying inhale. </p><p>The breath prompted him to let out a staggered cough as he choked against the smoke. His throat was raw as he spat bile onto the sidewalk beside him, rubbing at his aching chest as he shoved his lighter back into his pocket. He bowed his head forward as he took a second purposeful drag, determined to protect his precious cigarette from the rain.</p><p>His fringe dripped a steady stream over his hands as the rain cascaded down upon him. Yet he made no move for cover. He only sat, allowing the dangerous activity of letting his mind wander.</p><p>He absently counted each droplet of water as it dripped from his hair, mindlessly picking at the half-healed scabs on the back of his hand as he wallowed - <em>four, five, six... twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine... </em><em>eighty, eighty-one...</em></p><p>
  <em>I love you, Merriell.</em>
</p><p>Suddenly, he doubled over, succumbing to the overwhelming clenching of sickness in his stomach as he emptied the paltry contents of his last meal to the ground beneath his feet.</p><p>He let out a low gasp of breath, spitting the remnants of bile from his mouth on top of the pile before wiping his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve. Uttering a noise akin to a sob, he slowly raised his head up to the sky. The heavy rain almost blinding him as he stared up against the looming storm clouds.</p><p>
  <em>You deserve this. </em>
</p><p>The sky was almost black from the cyclone brewing. Such weather was uncommon for this time of year, yet Merriell found it comforting. Almost as though the city was screaming out in solidarity with him. Almost as if someone cared. </p><p>Tossing his burnt off cigarette to the ground, he silenced his raving mind, resolving to stop feeling sorry for himself - <em>what good did that ever do?</em></p><p>All he knew was that he wanted to feel something; <em>anything</em>. He wanted the numbness to stop; just for a minute. Just long enough to let him think.</p><p>He knew what would work.</p><p>Stumbling back to his feet, he gave a final hacking cough onto the rising puddles. Before pulling the collar of his ragged jacket up against the teeming rain as he disappeared into the mouth of the storm. </p><hr/><p>It was in a bar much later that night that he finally spotted <strong>the </strong>one.</p><p>He could always identify them, that was never an issue. There was an air about them that he found so easily identifiable. The way they curled in on themselves like they had something to hide, eyes guiltily shifting around the occupiers of the establishment in which they sat. They may as well have worn a scarlet letter. For he was sure the Queers of New Orleans would stand out as vividly to the cops as they did to him. This man, nor any of the others in the previous bars he had frequented, were any kind of exception.</p><p>He needed a <em>particular</em> kind of Queer tonight. One that would do as he was told. One that was malleable, who would get it over quickly. One who was desperate to please; <em>lonely.</em> One who was the complete opposite of Eug...</p><p>Merriell surveyed the man scrupulously as he approached the bar, leaning heavily against the wooden surface beside him. He glanced up irritably in response, clearly annoyed by any such intrusion.</p><p>He smirked gamely, flicking his eyes the length of the man's body as he examined him. He was a little older, maybe thirty - <em>quiet, timid, pliable</em>.</p><p>He wore a crumpled suit, a day’s work's worth of sweat adorned the collar of his shirt. His shoes were scuffed, worn down at the heel and resoled - he worked door to door, a salesman, maybe. His face was mottled with a six o’clock shadow, he looked weary - he'd had a long day and he was avoiding going home.</p><p>Merriell glanced down to see he wore a wedding ring on his finger - shiny, he hadn't been married long. <em>Poor fuck. </em></p><p>But what stood out the most was his vibrant red hair, brushed neatly into a comb-over. He didn't know if that made this better or worse.</p><p>Gesturing to the bartender, he took his seat on the wooden stool beside him, lightly stumbling as he straddled it, already inebriated from his sojourns to the previous establishments. </p><p>‘A bottle of y'cheapest whiskey.’ He directed, waving a hand to the alcohol stacked against the back wall. He reached to pull a cigarette from his pack with his teeth as he spoke, before shoving his thumb towards the man beside him. 'On him' He added, his voice muffled around the smoke as he ignited the tip.</p><p>The man beside him bristled, glaring at him with a look of irritated incredulity.</p><p>‘<em>No</em>, it ain’t.’ He objected, a thick Louisianan accent ridding Merriell of all intrigue to the contrary.</p><p>He smirked knowingly in response, lip curling as he flicked his cigarette into the ashtray. The bartender gave them both a perplexed look before heading down the bar to retrieve the low rate liquor.</p><p>‘Sure it is.’ Merriell answered lightly, glancing to the man, before skirting a tentative look towards the bartender, ensuring he was far enough away before he finished his sentence. ‘Cos I’m gonna let ya fuck me when it’s gone.’ </p><p>The man whitened, letting out a stuttered choke in response. ‘I… I have no…’ He began, but Merriell snorted in response.</p><p>‘Who the fuck you think you're foolin'?’ He responded, with a scathing grin. He cocked his head to one side. ‘Your call, Red. I’m gone in three seconds.’</p><p>On cue, the bartender returned, placing a bottle and two glasses onto the bar. ‘Nine dollars; sixty cents.’ He stated, glancing between the two of them.</p><p>Merriell stared at him for a moment, his eyebrow twitching in a silent ultimatum.</p><p>With a bemused gasp, the man reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing his wallet with a shake of his head. He placed a ten-dollar bill on the bar - with a wave for the bartender to keep the change.</p><p>‘I’m Don.’ He stated gingerly, offering a small smile.</p><p>His anxiety was palpable, to a point that Merriell almost pitied him. Yet he only offered a smirk in response, pulling the bottle towards him. He untwisted the lid, pouring two healthy measures into the tumblers before him.</p><p>‘Don, I <em>could not</em> give less of a shit.’ He stated, passing a glass towards him. ‘Now shut ya damn mouth and drink with me.’</p><hr/><p>The bottle was emptied in less than half an hour and, to Merriell's prediction, Don had been as good as gold. Not daring to utter so much as a sound since his instruction.</p><p>He coughed heavily, docking his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bar. 'C'mon then.' He muttered, staggering to his feet, drunkenly yanking his coat from the stool beside him before heading for the door without a further word.</p><p>The brisk evening air sobered Merriell as he walked. The night was cold and damp, the rain having cleared several hours earlier. The sound of happy conversation and raucous laughter spilt from the bars and restaurants, as he passed. The brief thought drifted through his mind that he couldn't remember the last time he had emitted such a noise. Yet he forced the thought from his mind. </p><p>He was <em>not</em> going to pity himself; <em>not tonight.</em></p><p>He could feel tentative eyes on the back of his head as Don scuttled behind him, unsure of whether he was yet allowed to make any noise or ask questions.</p><p><em>He wasn't.</em> </p><p>He clicked his tongue irritably at the busyness of the area. It was far too packed for what he had planned and he hadn't intended to drag his new acquaintance halfway across the city. That was too much effort.</p><p>Merriell glanced behind him, surveying Don with an aggrieved gaze. <em>Then again, needs must.</em> They needed somewhere more remote which, during Mardi Gras season, was going to have to be much further out of the centre of town. </p><p>Crossing the sidewalk, he continued up the street, before cutting along the back of the old bakery on the corner of North Rampart Street. Madame Broussard used to let him eat there in exchange for odd jobs, but Madame Broussard had been dead for an awfully long time. He headed down the alleyway between the Pawn Brokers and the Pharmacy before joining onto the back of Desire street. He smirked at the notion. </p><p>The numbers of passersby began to dwindle as Merriell continued to stride down the maze-like backstreets. Along routes that were imprinted upon his mind like a map. All the while, Don followed.</p><p>He cut down the final alley before turning back to face his companion, the area was empty as predicted. Don appeared after a beat, somewhat breathless after their extended trek.</p><p>He stared at Merriell, uncertainly, with a naivety that spurred something familiar inside him.</p><p>'How... how does this work?' He asked hesitantly.</p><p>
  <em>'How does this work?' There was a flash of hesitation across Eugene's face as he gazed at Merriell timidly, his arms folded over his bare chest, as though they hadn't seen one another shirtless a thousand times before. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell smirked, lowly. The act sparking a warmth in his chest, a protectiveness. They didn't have long, a distant voice in the back of his brain reminded him. Burgie would come back to the tent soon, but that didn't spur him on as it should have done. He had no intention of rushing this; it was so important that they didn't. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Slowly, Merriell reached for him, petrified he would bolt. He moved calmly towards him, as though he were a spooked animal. Petrified he would bolt. He tugged gently on his dog tags as he pressed their foreheads against one another, running an assuring hand along his cheek. He smiled softly at him, taking in the way his disjointed breathing eased at the contact. Leaning in to kiss him, he felt the way Eugene's nerves rolled off him in waves.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Just trust me.'</em>
</p><p>Merriell tried to speak, yet he found his tongue to suddenly be too thick, <em>too heavy. </em>He struggled to form any form of coherent sound. Every ounce of moisture had dissipated from his mouth at the sudden memory and the exertion it took to force it away. He swallowed, setting Don a stiff gaze as he composed himself.</p><p>'You... done this before?' He asked, clearing his throat lightly. His stomach sank; he didn't have the energy to train a fucking virgin. To his relief, Don nodded.</p><p>'A coupl'a times.' He answered, hesitantly. </p><p>Merriell sniffed, reaching for his worn belt buckle and unclasping it. Ignoring the way Don was gazing at him longingly. 'Then do it the exact same as the other times.'</p><p>He smiled uncertainly, before reaching for him. Making what seemed like an attempt to kiss him as he closed the distance between them.</p><p>Merriell recoiled.</p><p>'Not that!' He rebuked, alarmedly, shaking his head as he held his hands up to still his trysts' advances. His voice sounded a little too hysterical for his liking as his heart pounded in his chest with an atypical alarm. <em>He didn't kiss. He hadn't kissed. Not since Eug... </em></p><p>Don's movements stilled and he offered him a perplexed look. </p><p>Merriell rolled his lower lip between his teeth. 'I... I ain't your fuckin' broad, you don't gotta kiss me.' He objected, defensively. 'Not when...' He trailed off, attempting to sound less repulsed by such an activity. He flicked his eyes to Don's before purposefully lowering them to the front of his trousers. 'Not when you could be puttin' y'self to better use.'</p><p>Don grinned.</p><hr/><p>Tonight wasn't having the effect that Merriell had anticipated; the effect he had wanted. It was tolerable usually, almost enjoyable. Yet tonight it was just miserable. Tonight it <em>hurt</em> - and not only physically.</p><p>It passed in waves as he fought against the growing uncomfortableness in his stomach.</p><p>His pants lay bunched around his ankles, his face scraping into the brickwork of the wall he stood propped against as Don worked him over. His fingers clumsy, poorly lubricated, inexperienced,<em> painful</em>. Then again, that was the only way that he could have sex with anyone,<em> painfully. </em></p><p>
  <em>It was the only type he could have that didn't remind him of Eug...</em>
</p><p><em>SAY HIS NAME! </em>He screamed at himself. <em>YOU PITIFUL PIECE OF SHIT, YOU CAN'T EVEN SAY HIS FUCKING NAME.</em></p><p>Merriell's eyes sank shut. </p><p>
  <em>Eugene. </em>
</p><p>The word twisted within him like a knife. He could block it out for the most part - the pain. He was good at that.</p><p>After a few months or so of being home, the agony had simply settled within him. Like sediment at the bottom of a glass - lying almost completely undisturbed. If he were careful not to rigorously move the liquid, that was. He was good at damage limitation; he'd been doing it all his life. The trauma he had endured, not just from the war or from Eugene, could be ignored if he tried hard enough.</p><p>During the days, at least.</p><p>He would roll out of bed, brush his teeth, down some coffee and head to work. After pulling a ten-hour shift down the sawmill until his back ached and his fingers were almost blistered, he would be forced to retreat home. That was when the problems began.</p><p>The nights were almost impossible. He would either spend his evenings drowning his sorrows and his feeling in a nearby bar, squandering his weekly wage just like his Daddy had, or to drown them alone on his naked mattress in his rented room before blacking out into a fitful slumber, just like his Daddy had.</p><p>The entire cycle would begin from the moment his eyes pinged open from his fractured attempts of slumber until he finally managed to fall asleep. Yet more often than not, he lacked even that inadequate reprieve. The torture proved to be continuous, lasting sometimes for weeks, months on end. When Eugene's presence relentlessly encroached upon his dreams. Such nights left him in agony, blistered from the memories, making him want to scream out into the abyss of his loneliness. The abyss of his own desolation.</p><p>Whoever said time healed all wounds lied. Time just allowed you to grow used to the pain.</p><p>Yet, despite the agony his memories caused, he would have drowned in them if he could. He would willingly, if he didn't find the morning after so crippling.</p><p>He would reach out in an aborted attempt to connect his fingertips with a bedmate who no longer existed, falling asleep in an imagined lover's embrace to waken to the morning light so desperately alone.</p><p>Sometimes, he wished he had died in Okinawa. It would have been less painful if he had.</p><p>But he hadn't. He was alive and breathing, an opportunity so many of his fallen comrades could only have dreamed of.</p><p>Alive yet alone. With only his memories, tucked safely away in his own mind. Memories of his past. His war. His pain. His happiness. His agony. His Eugene. A long, distant memory. One that no longer belonged to him, he knew that. Yet one that he clung to miserably.</p><p>Death would have been kinder, he mused.</p><p>It was going to be one such agonising night, tonight. He'd known that from the moment he had received the news. He had wanted support, he had wanted a kind word, <em>he wanted him</em>. Nothing would override that. Nothing ever did.</p><p>'There?' Don's voice was husky as he broke through the sound of Merriell's thundering thoughts, oblivious to his impending lover's turmoil.</p><p>He gritted his teeth.</p><p>
  <em>'There?' Eugene murmured hesitantly, his slickened fingers curling inside Merriell just like he had been instructed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell let out a huffed stammer, halfway between a chuckle and a desperate gasp for air as a wave of pleasure rolled through him. 'Bit... bit higher.' He directed. 'Feels like a little...' His sentence fell aborted as the intrigued fingers rolled over the bundle of nerves in question and he uttered a faltering breath, electricity engulfing him. 'Fuck.' He gasped, clawing at the flattened pillow beneath him. 'There... right - right there.'  </em>
</p><p><em>Eugene let out a sound of victory, his delight palpable. He crooked his fingers like he'd been taught, grinning into the skin behind Merriell's ear, before nipping at it with his teeth. </em> <em>'You owe me a dollar, Shelton.' He stated, the pleased voice echoing lowly around their Peking bunk. 'Told you I could do it.' </em></p><p>
  <em>'Don't - don't owe y'shit.' Merriell rebuked, his eyes screwing shut as he let out another gasp. 'Deal was y'finish it.' He corrected him. 'Boy, you ain't started.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Oh, I'll finish it.' Eugene muttered, agreeably, settling himself warmly against Merriell's bare back as his second, slickened hand reached forward to where he was aching for him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell only mewled in response, falling against the warm embrace as he allowed his head to drop against his chest. It'd be a dollar well spent.</em>
</p><p>He cringed at the way Don pressed a series of open-mouthed kisses against his neck. It took every ounce of control he had within him to repress his urge to recoil from the sickening advance. He didn't want this. He wanted his memories. He wanted his safe space. He wanted Eugene.</p><p>Merriell screwed his eyes shut, his face contorting as he pressed his face further into the brickwork, inhaling the scent of rain-drenched cinder block.</p><p>'There.' He hissed tightly, sinking his teeth painfully into his lower lip as a tear ran from his eye.</p><p>Don's grunts filled his ears as he moved against him. Ugly, unwanted snorts that left him wanting to be sick. </p><p>With a final sharp cry and one last surge of pain, it was over. Having lasted barely ten minutes. It had felt like hours.</p><p>Merriell's knuckles were raw from scraping against the bricks. The tang of blood sat against his lip from where he had bitten down painfully upon it to quell any verbal objections that may have arisen. His ass was sore, dripping. He was positive he would find blood in his underwear later.</p><p>His eyes screwed shut again as Don sank to his knees before him in the alley, mouth warm and engulfing, pliable as Merriell guided him. This was why he did it; this is what made the altercation tolerable. Beneath him, they were always silent, malleable. Offering nothing but an aching, physical relief. He could forget like this or at least try to. Just for a moment. </p><p>Merriell clenched his hands against the red tendrils as he began to thrust against him, desperately trying to engross himself in the act. Yet the way Don gagged beneath him set his teeth on edge. He'd wanted to feel something other than numbness, this was what he had been waiting for.</p><p>He let out a stuttering breath. He didn't want this. </p><p>
  <em>Dark eyes and swollen lips gazed up at him. His signet ring glistening against the evening twilight as his hand moved in time with his mouth, desperately wanting to please him.</em>
</p><p>He didn't want this.</p><p>
  <em>Merriell's voice moved without him, his words jumbling together over the ministrations as pleasure surged through his body. His hands ran desperately through Eugene's hair, tugging at the mussed tendrils before smoothing them back down. He moved to cup his cheek, tenderly brushing his damp fringe from his face as he couldn't quite decide his favourite way to hold onto him. He wanted everything, all at once.</em>
</p><p>He didn't want this.</p><p>
  <em>His face contorted as he let out another moan, akin to a sob. His hips bucked forward of their own volition. He gasped in instant regret, reactively attempting to draw backwards before Eugene could struggle around him. Yet Eugene obstinately batted him away, scrabbling forward in time with his retraction as he determinedly continued. He looped his spare hand around Merriell's bare hip, holding them staunchly connected. </em>
</p><p><em>Merriell reached to cup his cheeks, tracing the pad of his thumb encouragingly along his jaw as he stared down at him, slack-jawed with a feeling he could only describe as adoration. He'd never felt <strong>anything</strong></em> <em>that compared to this.</em></p><p>He didn't want this.</p><p>
  <em>Eugene held his gaze, peering up at him with such an intensity that Merriell's knees threatened to crumble beneath him at any given moment. He hummed affectionately against him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything else save for stare back. God, he loved him so fucking much it hurt.</em>
</p><p>He came with a grunt, eyes flying open. The vision was replaced by the sight of a different redhead on his knees before him. He stumbled backwards, repulsed, by his own actions.</p><p>Merriell had yanked his trousers up before Don had even fully withdrawn, spitting the contents of his mouth to the floor. He wanted to cry with relief that the event was over; this had been a mistake. He buckled his worn belt hurriedly, refusing to make eye contact with the man at his feet. </p><p>'Thanks for the booze.' He muttered distantly, before turning on his haunches and hurrying from the alley without so much as a second glance.</p><hr/><p>He hated himself afterwards; the same as he always did.</p><p>He had ambled between so many bars that he had lost count, curled pitifully in a corner until he had been thrown out of each at closing time. Out of sheer desperation, he found himself in one of his familiar old haunts.</p><p>He hadn't been back in his childhood neighbourhood since before he had left for war. Even through his stupor, he was surprised at how the area had grown even more decrepit in the last decade. It had been poverty-stricken when he lived here; now it was ravaged. He hated being back, it was far too close to his old stomping ground for his liking and he knew he was bound to run into at least <em>somebody. </em> </p><p>Then again, beggars couldn't be choosers and 'Le Dame Vert' had been the only place he could think of being open at 2:00 AM. </p><p>He lay slumped over the bar, the tacky wooden surface holding his jacket in a stickyweed-like embrace. One finger traced around the neck of his empty glass, the remnants of ice pooling around its base. His cheek rested against his forearm as he gazed miserably into nothingness.</p><p>He must have been a pathetic sight.</p><p>He coughed wetly, swallowing down the bile that arose in his throat - his chest was always worse when he lay down. Old Loubie the barman moved to fill his glass but he held up a hand to stop him.</p><p>Drinking too much was never a good idea when he was feeling like this - isolated, angry, desolate - <em>lonely. </em></p><p>He smirked to himself drunkenly. That was probably advice he should have listened to ten hours ago. He was too far gone now.</p><p>Then again, it wasn't his loneliness that was crippling him tonight. Hell, he lived with his loneliness every waking moment. </p><p>No. Tonight was different, <em>today</em> had been different. It had been different since he'd set foot at the doctor's office. And if he didn't have an excuse to drink himself to a mindless stupor tonight, then when would he?</p><p>He'd tried so hard to keep going, he really had. He'd wanted to. He'd fought all day to. Yet despite his best intentions, he had fully retreated inside his own head following the incident down the alleyway.</p><p>It was no surprise. After all, it was his favourite place to be when the world became too painful. Merriell had found himself to be living inside his head more and more, these days.</p><p>He sickened himself when his loneliness spilt out of him. Moreso than he usually did.</p><p><em>Where was he right now?</em> He wondered. <em>Right at this very second?</em></p><p>In bed with his wife, maybe. Perhaps up with a kid, rocking it back to sleep in a perfect picket-fenced nursery. God, he hoped he was happy.</p><p>He would be immeasurably different if nothing else, Merriell resolved. It had been years, after all.</p><p>He would be a distant memory to him by now, just another buddy from the Marines. That was the way he had wanted it to be; that was the way it was supposed to have been. But fuck that didn't mean it wasn't agony. Didn't make any of it easier.</p><p>The scent of the barracks in China was palpable on nights like tonight. When his grief was as raw as it was the moment he had set foot off that goddamn fucking train.</p><p>It smelt sickeningly like cold stone tiles, cleaning bleach and empty corridors. Yet their two-man bunk had smelt the closest thing to home Merriell had ever known. </p><p>They had been expecting a group dorm upon their arrival at the Peking and simply couldn't believe their luck when K-Company had been issues double barracks, instead. Burgie had speculated it was to butter the platoon up over their required six-month extension, whilst what seemed to be the rest of the world was allowed to return home. </p><p>Merriell couldn't have given a shiny shit to the reasoning; not when he had found himself and Eugene grinning incredulously at one another as they dumped their seabags onto their matching bunks.</p><p>They had been the only two left from their original group by then, with Jay and Bill having shipped stateside before the war had even ended and Burgie reigning supreme in his officers' block where he had a real bed and a desk. But Merriell wouldn't have changed anything about their time in China.</p><p>He could still smell their bedroll - musty and damp from the poorly insulated windows, snow teaming against the thin panes as the wind rattled the building.</p><p>But Eugene had been so warm that suddenly winter hadn't mattered any more. He had seemed to spend most of December laughing at his inability to get warm. Merriell had never seen snow before Peking.</p><p>
  <em>'You're a goddamn melt.' </em>
</p><p>He shut his eyes at the sound of his voice, as clear as if he was sat beside him. He dug his blunt fingernails into the back of his scabbed hand when he felt the mortifying all too familiar bite in the back of his eyes, his lower lip threatening to wobble. He purposely scratched on one of the fresher lesions to ensure it would hurt.</p><p>He growled angrily to himself, the sound coming out only in a drunken mumble. Yet the stinging pain against his skin and the flush of plasma-rich blood beneath his fingers succeeded in repressing his tears.</p><p>He would have plenty of time to do that at home.</p><p>
  <em>They lay bundled into the rack by the wall, furthest from the window. Had it been Eugene's or his, originally? He couldn't remember. They had spent so long scrunched up together on the same bed that it was hard to envision a time when he could have slept through the night any other way.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell let out a low grumble beneath his breath, pulling his thick woollen jacket further up his body so the collar hung over his nose. 'Survived three fuckin' years o'war... gonna freeze t'death in my damn' bunk.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene let out a low snort behind him, pulling him impossibly closer against his jumpered chest. 'You're such a hypochondriac.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I ain't.' Merriell muttered irritably, allowing Eugene to pillow his chin over his shoulder. He sank his cheek against the crook of Eugene's warm neck.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'A bit of snow ain't ever hurt anyone.' Eugene attempted to reassure him, nuzzling his nose against his skin as he rubbed a hand along his side to warm him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell scoffed, morosely. 'Beg t'fuckin' differ - I've been homeless, I know what... pneu... pneumonia damn-well feel like.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene exhaled, exasperatedly. 'For a start, it's Hypothermia... and y'know - there's a condition for people like you.' He responded, fingers tracing idly over his jumpered skin. 'Munchausen Syndrome - you make shit up to get people feelin' sorry for you... pretend to be sick so you'll get your way.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Is it... workin'?' Merriell countered, with an exaggerated shiver, purposely dragging his words.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'You know it's fuckin' workin'.' Eugene rebuked frustratedly, running his hands along his sides in a bid to build up some heat for him as he tucked himself over his limbs to share their mutual warmth. 'Y'know - they say to preserve body heat you're supposed to take your clothes off...' He prosed. 'So c'mon, Snaf - get your cock out.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>In spite of his miserable mood, Merriell let out a guffaw. He nudged his elbow back into Eugene's chest at such an absurd notion. 'I'd rather let Mac bite it off.' He responded and Eugene smiled against his neck, bemusedly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Jesus Christ.' He murmured, affectionately. 'Finally found something that keeps you in your pants - frost bite.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'God, you're lovin' every second'a this, y'damn sadist.' He rebuked, the statement lacking any bite, as he shuffled further beneath the covers.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene reached round for his hand where the sat scrunched against his chest, covering them with his own fingers as he ran his thumbs over the span of Merriell's skin. 'Shut up and go to sleep.' He whispered gently, every inch of their skin aligned together. 'I won't let you freeze.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I'll hold ya to that.' Merriell rebuked, his eyes sinking closed as he lay soothed by the rhythmic stroking of Eugene's fingers against his own, and the languid kisses he pressed softly against his neck and cheek. </em>
</p><p>He could still feel the lingering imprint of lips against his skin.</p><p>'Stop it.' He muttered angrily to himself, forcefully wiping his eyes. 'Stop it.' </p><p>He'd wanted to feel; wanted to think. He'd be careful what he wished for in future... for however long that would be. However long he had.</p><p>He raised his hand towards Loubie, having changed his mind about the top-up. He wanted to black out; he <em>needed</em> to black out. These nights never ended any other way. He would black out at the bar and wake up in a doorway the next morning. It would kill a night.</p><p>Yet Loubie never had so much as a chance to respond before an entirely unexpected voice ravaged an all too familiar sickness throughout Merriell's body, regardless of his drunken stupor. </p><p>'Tee.'</p><p>The hairs on the back of his neck sprang on end. His mouth dried, his heartrate quickened and his spine shot ramrod straight. It took everything within Merriell to suppress the physical bristle that threatened across his skin. As it always did at the sound of his Father's voice.</p><p>He swallowed, licking his lip before raising the final dregs of watered-down liquor to his mouth and draining the contents as he ignored the introduction. He would pass out on a bench with this amount of alcohol, just fine.</p><p>Yet the voice continued, undeterred.</p><p>
  <span>‘J'ntendu que tu's revenue.’ </span>
</p><p>‘Bad news travels fast.’ He muttered dryly, tossing a handful of coins to the bar to cover his tab and climbing to his feet.</p><p>He turned, hoping to aim straight for the door, yet the dishevelled man before him blocked his path.</p><p>His Father was not a tall man, by any means. Especially given his state. Hunched over, in scruffy work clothes, wearing three days of stubble with an overgrown comb-over and looking so damn old. Yet to Merriell, he still loomed.</p><p><span>‘Sa Va?’</span> He asked, genially, holding his hand open warmly.</p><p>It was always like this. Like they were old friends who hadn't seen one another in years. Like his childhood had never happened. Like his entire life hadn't been mapped out by this man's failings. Like he had ever meant a thing to him. To his chagrin, the sudden flush of anxiety prompted the familiar biting in his chest.</p><p>‘Swell.’ He bit back, running his tongue over his teeth, painfully aware of the building wheeze in his lungs. ‘’til you showed up.’ <em>Why tonight?</em></p><p><span>‘Laissez-moi vu paye 'n'verre.’</span> He gestured to the bar.</p><p>Merriell, never one to turn down a free drink, followed his gaze. Then again, he wasn't that desperate.</p><p>He shook his head. <span>‘Tu'a bien’</span> He responded, dryly. <span>‘À re'oir’</span></p><p>He moved to push past him, but his Father caught his arm. ‘Tee…’</p><p>‘Don’t fuckin' <em>call me that</em>!’ His voice rang out across the bar with such ferocity that the other patrons turned to look at them. His childhood nickname still sickened him. A cough suddenly sprang from him and he wheezed against it, ripping his arm from his grasp. His Father's touch remained suffocating even after all these years. Straightening up, he glanced around, lowering his voice. ‘And fuckin’ <em>talk English</em>.’ He spat through gritted teeth. ‘Could never understan’ the way you fuckin’ swallow words - what is it? What d'ya want from me?’</p><p>‘Will you… sit?’ He tried, gesturing back to the bar. ‘Just for a minute?’</p><p>Merriell coughed again, before rolling his eyes. Despite his better judgement he acquiesced. Retaking his seat as he pulled his battered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He hacked into the crook of his arm, his chest aching from exertion, before raising it to his lips. ‘You got <em>one minute.’ </em>He stated.</p><p>His Father surveyed him, with a look of suspicion but said nothing.</p><p>‘Mawmaw died.’ He stated.</p><p>'I know.' He answered, flatly. 'I'd've gone t'the send off if I'd'a been here.'</p><p>His Father nodded. 'How was it?' He asked hesitantly. 'The war? You in Japan weren't ya?'</p><p>'It w'war-like.' Merriell answered, indifferently. 'That it?'</p><p>'No...' His Father glanced round the mostly empty bar. 'It's... it's been years, T... Merriell.' </p><p>'I know.' He repeated, running his tongue along his lower lip. 'That it?'</p><p>'Been thinkin' on you.' He tried.</p><p>'Don't bother.' Merriell answered, allowing Loubie to refill his previously abandoned glass. He raised it to his mouth, downing half of it. </p><p>'Y'heard from your sister?' He continued, pointedly.</p><p>'Jesus, Daddy.' He muttered, miserably. 'I ain't too gone to lay you out. I left ya wi' ya front teeth last time, I ain't gonna be s'damn second time round.'</p><p>'Take that as a no.'</p><p>'Can take it as y'like.' He downed the rest of the liquor before climbing to his feet. 'Minute's up - thanks f'the drink, <em>Allen</em>.'</p><p>'I'm sick, boy.' He stated.</p><p>Merriell scoffed, before he coughed. 'Of ev'rybody in the world you gotta tell that news to - trust me, it <em>ain't</em> me.' He stated, as he made to climb back to his feet. 'Could'a told y'that by five-year-old.'</p><p>'Dyin', Tee.' </p><p>Merriell paused, glancing at him as he stood half off the stool. Deplorably, something in him twinged. He hated him unwaveringly and unconditionally. Yet, as terrible as he was, his Father was all he had in the world.</p><p>'You shittin' on me?' He asked, hesitantly. 'Cos I ain't got time for y'bullshit.'</p><p>'Naw.' He answered lowly, shaking his head as he circled the rim of his glass in the exact way Merriell had done, not five minutes earlier. 'Dyin'.' He repeated. 'Liver... liver packed in 'ccordin' to doc.'</p><p>Merriell huffed, lowering himself back onto the barstool. 'Hell, you been poundin' it for long enough.'</p><p>His Father tittered lightly beside him. 'I ain't been a great Father.'</p><p>'Understatement o'the century.' He responded, taking a deep drag.</p><p>'God, you always gotta be such a fuckin' smart mouth?' He asked, irritably.</p><p><span> 'J'suis le fils de m'mère.'</span> He stated, reaching for his Father's untouched glass and raising it to his lips.</p><p>
  <span> 'Bien vu.'</span>
</p><p>Merriell paused, studying the glass before him. 'It been you leavin' the flowers at her grave?' He asked.</p><p>Slowly, his Father nodded. 'S'how I knew you was back.' He stated. 'Saw the Magnolias.' </p><p>'Fuck, y'can't even leave her 'lone in death, can ya?' He responded with an aggrieved huff.</p><p>'Loved her.' His Father stated, lowly.</p><p>Merriell snorted. 'Y'wouldn't know how'ta love if y'life depended on it.' He muttered, disgustedly. He sniffed, a heavy silence lingering in the air.</p><p>There was an ulterior motive here; there always was.</p><p>'Y'know, I really ain't in the mood f'family bondin'.' He stated, dismissively. 'And you ain't ever been interested in playin' Daddy neither, s'what gives?'</p><p>His Father smiled to himself. 'I wanna make it right.' He stated, gazing down at the bar. 'W'you 'n y'sister. 'Fore my time.'</p><p>Merriell let out a genuine bark of disbelieving laughter, shaking his head incredulously. He took an aggrieved swig of his drink. 'Fuck me, you're somethin' else, y'know that?' He spat, viciously.</p><p>'I know.' He stated. 'That's... that's why I'm... tryin'.'</p><p>'<em>You tryin</em>'.' Merriell repeated repulsively, the words settling like poison against his lips. 'You should'a been <em>tryin'</em> when we was half starved.' He responded, listlessly. 'Should'a been <em>tryin'</em> when they took her from me. Should'a been <em>tryin'</em> when you was beatin' Momma into an early grave.' He paused, the image of himself at five years old staring back at him from across the bar.</p><p>
  <em>A tiny scrap of a thing, only looking half his age. His face gaunt, grubby, with a nest of unbrushed curls and haunting eyes. His last meal, a memory, his next meal, a dream. No shoes. No clothes. No food. No toys. No stability. No love. No home. Unwanted. An outcast with the other children. Emaciated beneath his ragged dungarees. So terribly frightened and so terribly sad. Just in need of a hot meal, a warm embrace and a little affection.</em>
</p><p>'You answer me somethin'?' He asked. 'Cos this been hauntin' me for the last twenty years.' </p><p>There was a strike of matches that made Merriell cringe as his Father lit a cigarette. He unconsciously pulled his sleeves as far down his arms as they would go, ensuring the skin beneath was protected from the danger of the flame.</p><p>'What?' His Father asked, taking a drag before glancing at him, hesitantly.</p><p>'Mawmaw wanted me.' He mused. 'When we was still in Arcadia.' He licked his lip, the memory of the only warmth his childhood had known flushing over him.</p><p>He could smell her Red Beans and Rice bubbling on the stove and feel her gentle hands on his face as she bathed him. He could hear the lullabies she would hum as he sat by her feet in front of the fire. The clack of her needles as she mended his clothes.</p><p>He sniffed, re-surrounding himself with the dreary bar around him. 'Why'd'ya not let me stay?' He asked, painfully. 'Why'd'ya take me t'Lafayette?' He scoffed. 'You <em>hated me... </em>why... why not leave me?' He smirked to himself, leaning back on the stool as he smoked. Sincerity always left him sickeningly uncomfortable. 'Why not just leave me behind? W'someone who actually wanted me?' He huffed, flicking his ash. 'Fuckin' <em>loved</em> me?'</p><p>His Father scoffed, unkindly. 'Jesus, you don't gotta<em> act</em> like such a Faggot.' He muttered, uncomfortably. 'Dirty fudge packin' Goudou.'</p><p>'For fuck sake!' Merriell objected, shaking his head, repugnantly. There was never any use of attempting a proper conversation with his Father. He knew that. 'This you tryin'?' He snapped, anger bursting from him in a snap. He shoved him viciously, ready to throw a punch were it not for the way his Father stumbled against the bar, clutching his abdomen. </p><p>He glared at him, watching as he clawed his way back to a sitting position. For the first time, he noticed how yellowed his skin was.</p><p>'That was it, why you always hated me so damn much... wa'nt it?' He stated. 'You knew even back then, huh? Your boy was a ragin' fairy and there wasn't a damn fuckin' thing y'could do 'bout it. Embarrassed ya. Disgusted ya.'</p><p>His Father uttered an aggrieved noise in response and Merriell smirked to himself.</p><p>'It's a two way road, Daddy.' He murmured, softly, taking another mouthful of his drink. 'You hate me f'who I choose t'fuck... I just fuckin' <em>hate ya</em>.'</p><p>Slowly he reached into the inside of his pocket, withdrawing his tattered, empty wallet. From it, he pulled a half torn folded scrap of paper.</p><p>He surveyed it. His prized possession. The address of his baby sister written on the back of a carefully pencilled letter that he had written with the belief he would die any day. <em>A letter he never sent.</em></p><p>'You want Essie's address?' He asked, brandishing it between his fingers.</p><p>His Father stared at him incredulously, before nodding curtly.</p><p>'Then give me a proper reason.' He rebuked, trying to keep his voice from wavering with his bubbling vulnerability. 'If you ain't got one... j... just make it up... <em>why d'you not let me stay with her</em>?'</p><p>He let out a sigh, shaking his head with exasperation.  'Cos no matter... <em>what</em> you are... you still my son.' He answered, quietly. 'You... <em>my Tee</em>. My boy. I ain't ever hate you, Merriell... you b'longed wi' me.' He trailed off. 'I just ain't even been a good Father. That... wasn't... your...' He suddenly stiffened, his back flying ramrod straight as he abandoned his sentence. 'I should never've b'n a Daddy... s'all. Stop thinkin' on it.'</p><p>Merriell nodded to himself, running his tongue over his lower lip with a silent resignation. 'I know where I get it.' He stated, quietly.</p><p>'Get what?' His Father asked, tightly. </p><p>'Bein' useless at lyin'.'</p><p>He chuckled.</p><p>'Na, you been an excellent liar, Tee.' He answered, sniffing as he knocked his ash off his cigarette. 'Any fool else'd've believed you'd actually pass that on.' He nodded towards the paper in his hand. 'I's know you'd damn die 'fore you let her get back in contact wi'either o'us.'</p><p>Merriell smirked, gazing at the paper in his hand. 'True.' He agreed. After a moment, he withdrew his cigarette from his mouth, taking its cherry to the corner, allowing it the paper to catch against the flame. 'True.' He agreed, watching it burn.</p><p>'I could track her down m'self, y'know?' His Father warned, gazing at the paper being overtaken by flames. 'You think ya smart but y'ain't.'</p><p>Merriell lowered his gaze, his fingers smarting against the heat of the flame.</p><p>'You wanna make it right?' He asked, softly.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched his Father nod.</p><p>'Then stay away from her. That's all. S'all you gotta do.' He held his gaze heavily on the smouldering lines of address. 'Rest of it? Our problems...' He dropped the burning sheet into the ashtray in front him. 'S'just confetti.'</p><p>He slid his wallet back into his pocket.</p><p>'Just leave her be... s'the least she deserves.'</p><p>His chest was screaming as he attempted to climb to his feet. He always overestimated his own tolerance for holding in his outbursts.</p><p>He knew from the second he'd tried to stand that the game was up. He'd waited far too long, fighting it. He was finding it harder and harder to contain, given today's news that was no surprise. He distantly heard his Father say something to him, a hand reached for him, yet everything felt hazy as the wheezing in his chest suddenly escalated to a biting cough. He doubled over, clutching at the bar, his chest tightening as he wretched.</p><p><em>'Tee?!' </em>He heard distantly.</p><p>He gasped a choking breath, his vision tunnelled, heat crept across his skin, his lungs flamed, panic succumbed him and suddenly everything went black.</p><hr/><p>A sharp burst of ice-cold water snapped Merriell back to reality. He gasped, choking as his eyes flew open. He blinked, the dark sky of the night gazed down upon him. He rolled onto his side, fingers pressing to the deep puddles, nose settling against the sodden cobbles, his mind flailing as he attempted to remember where he was. A hand pressed to his side. </p><p>
  <em>'I won't let you freeze.'</em>
</p><p>He flinched, mind still hazy. 'Gene?!' He cried, blindly. </p><p>The burning gaze of his Father glared down as he squatted at his side, bucket still clutched in his grasp.</p><p>Suddenly, Merriell recoiled, feeling agonisingly exposed as reality flooded him. He wheezed several times, easing himself up onto his elbows as he spat onto the sidewalk, wiping his drenched face.</p><p>'The fuck you throw water on me for?' He snapped, as though he hadn't just collapsed in front of him.</p><p>'Y'fuckin' serious?' His Father responded, incredulously. 'The hell's wrong with ya?'</p><p>Merriell ignored him, glancing around. He lay on the sidewalk outside the now shut bar. He must have been dragged outside. He smirked dryly, pulling himself into a sitting position as he rummaged in his pocket for his cigarettes.</p><p>'Looks like it ain't just you who's sick.' He muttered darkly, lighting it and inhaling a deep drag as he offered another pitiful wheeze.</p><p>'Are you alright?' His Father asked hesitantly.</p><p>'Fuck off.' Merriell rebuked, defensively. 'Like you've ever give a shit.' He began to struggle to his feet, brushing off his wet clothes irritably.</p><p>He glanced up, taking in the scrupulous expression on his Father's face as he stared at him, questioningly.</p><p>'Don't you worry 'bout me none, Daddy.' He murmured, kicking his boot against the sidewalk. 'You good at that.'</p><p>'Do worry about you, Tee.' His Father stated, quietly. 'Been worried about you since you started runnin' round town like rest o'the Inverts.'</p><p>Merriell's lip curled. 'Yeah, well.' He muttered, taking a drag. 'Y'ain't gotta worry 'bout me much longer.' He shrugged. 'I'll race you to the finish line, whaddya say?'</p><p>He watched him swallow, a look of realisation crossing his face. His Father lowered his gaze to his feet with nothing to say.</p><p>'Look after y'self, Mer.' He stated, lowly, after a moment. 'You promise me?'</p><p>He smirked, taking another drag. 'Always do.' He answered, turning to walk away but his Father caught his arm.</p><p>'You stayin' someplace at the minute?' He asked, hesitantly. 'You ain't roughin' it? You always gotta place... if... if y'need it.'</p><p>Merriell scoffed. 'Don't worry 'bout it.' He muttered. 'I ain't in town for much longer.'</p><p>'No?' His Father asked, sceptically. 'Where you goin'?'</p><p>He licked his lip, glancing up at him. 'Need t'go settle a score with a friend.' He responded.</p><p>'You don't have friends, Tee.'</p><p>'No.' Merriell agreed. 'I suppose I don't.' He spat to the ground. <span>‘À re'oir, vieux salaud.'</span> He murmured.</p><p>His Father nodded, once again grabbing his forearm. Merriell paused. For a single moment, he pressed his head aginst his shoulder, before brushing away. Without a second glance, he carried on up the street, heading out into the night to find a suitable bench to lay his head until morning.</p><p>Being almost two months behind on rent was making his return to his rented room almost impossible. He'd only been back twice in the last week and had narrowly avoided confrontation with the landlord. His days there were numbered if he couldn't claw together some cash, yet without a job, such a task was a desolate cause. </p><p>Finding somewhere to sleep on nights like this was difficult. Especially with the Japanese soldier following him. His wet feet had still banished him back to Okinawa, regardless of how traumatic the day had been.  </p><p>He found himself settled in the alley behind the pawn shop near the back of Jackson Square, the only place the Nip hadn't followed him. He liked it here; he used to bring to the park Essie as a child. When he'd wake at first light, he could listen to the sounds of passersby milling about their day.</p><p>If he closed his eyes; it almost sounded like Peking. Suddenly, a painful choke gasped from Merriell's chest.</p><p>'Where are you, Cher?' He breathed, pulling his knees up to his chest as he settled his soggy coat around himself, tucking his chin beneath the collar to shield himself from the rain. 'Where the fuck you been?'</p><p>He closed his eyes tightly against the tears threatening beneath them, praying he would gather at least a couple of hours of sleep before daybreak. Praying even if he didn't, the memory of Eugene Sledge wouldn't haunt him too viciously. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading!</p><p>I would love to know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I just wanted to say thank you so much for the views and kind words of each and every one of you!</p><p>This story has been my baby since before I even began posting in the fandom so knowing you're enjoying it absolutely means the world.</p><p>So here we go on chapter two/one...</p><p>T/W - Please note: this chapter references graphic depictions of war, the death of a child, in-depth descriptions of PTSD and depression.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Mobile: June, 1946</span>
</p><p>The baby was slimy in Eugene’s grasp as he clung to it.</p><p>It screamed and writhed against his drenched hands as he did his utmost to comfort it, cradling and shushing it desperately. If he could placate it for long enough for it to fall silent, then they stood a chance of surviving, he rationalised. <em>Just a chance. All they needed was a chance.</em></p><p>Yet despite his greatest efforts, the baby only wailed on. Eugene let out his own cry of desolation as he quivered within the darkened bunker. He wretched against the aching nausea in his stomach, his skin drenched with sweat.</p><p>Straining his ears desperately above the baby's wails, he listened for the sound of any encroaching voices. There would be no escaping any Japs if it wouldn’t stop crying. If they were found it would be the end, for both of them.</p><p>He pleaded with it, rocking it against his chest. However, it made no difference and the baby's screams only grew louder.</p><p>With a choked sob of panic, he pressed his palm down over the baby's mouth to mute the sounds of its shrieks as it struggled against him.</p><p>‘I’m sorry.’ He gasped, tears falling thick and heavy against his face as he averted his eyes from the sight. ‘Just hang on; they’ll be back for us soon. You just need to be <em>quiet</em>.’</p><p>He raised his gaze to the eyeslit within the Pill-Box, braving a glance out into the decimated skyline. A pair of eyes glared back, suddenly shrieking at him in Japanese as a hand flew through the slit trying to grab him.</p><p>He screamed, recoiling backwards, clutching the drenched baby to his shoulder as he cowered against the furthest wall of the Pill Box.</p><p>He would keep the baby safe, even if it was just for a few more moments. He could keep a baby safe. He could keep a baby safe.</p><p>
  <em>HE COULD KEEP A BABY SAFE!</em>
</p><p>Suddenly light illuminated his enclosure as the roof was ripped away. He screamed again, folding over on himself to protect the child in his arms.</p><p>‘BABY KILLER!’ A familiar voice screeched.</p><p>Slowly, he raised his head, sickness churning. Ack-Ack loomed over him. His skin greyed and decaying, maggots crawling out of flesh holes, his forehead leaked blood from the gunshot wound between his eyes. A fetid hand reached towards him as he continued to chant.</p><p>‘BABY KILLER! BABY KILLER! BABY KILLER! BABY KILLER!!’</p><p>It was then that Eugene understood why the baby in his hands was so wet.</p><p>With a cry of despair, he gazed down to see it was utterly drenched in blood; his hands were drenched in blood. The baby was dripping, lying mutely in his arms – silent, with wide, staring eyes. With a sickening realisation, Eugene surmised he had suffocated it. <em>Again. </em></p><p>Suddenly the baby began to drift away. He clung to it with a sob, yet his hands clutched only air. He cried out desolately before suddenly the voice changed.</p><p>'Baby killer.'</p><p>He let out a chilled gasp, he would know the voice anywhere. Raising his gaze back up, Ack-Ack was gone and Merriell stood in his place. He stared down at him, his head cocked, wearing a tormented expression.</p><p>'Merriell!' Eugene cried, choking back on his tears. 'Merriell, help me!'</p><p>He tried to stumble to his feet but found his lower half leadened. Letting out a cry of panic, he raised his arms up towards him. Like a child would towards his Mother, desperate for comfort and assurance.</p><p>Merriell blankly looked on. 'Baby killer.' He repeated simply, before silently raising his gun towards Eugene’s face and pulling the trigger.</p><p>Eugene screamed as the crack of the bullet echoed.</p><p>He was suddenly suffocated by darkness. His body was strangled by thick binds as he shielded his face, writhing against his constraints. He clutched at himself trying to find the bullet hole, feeling unpleasantly wet.</p><p>
  <em>He was dead. <strong>Fuck,</strong> he was dead.</em>
</p><p>It took several panicked sobs until he began to familiarise himself with his surroundings. His footboard loomed at him from the bottom of his bed, his desk chair stood to attention by the window, the picture on his wall glared through him in the darkness, his bed lay unbearably soft beneath him.</p><p>
  <em>He was home.</em>
</p><p>With a sickened cry, he pressed his face into his hands. <em>He was home.</em></p><p>He took several staggered breaths as he tried to quell his pounding heart rate and bone-deep terror. His skin was dripping with sweat. His nightclothes gripped against the perspiration. </p><p>Letting out a final pain choke, he clasped his hand to his mouth to mute his whimpers as he kicked out at the covers surrounding him. Yet they clung on staunchly to his skin, damp and sticky.</p><p>After several more attempts he abandoned the feat, overwhelmed by images of the mutilated baby. Its blood was all over him. His head swam and nausea gripped him. He was going to be sick, he was going to be sick. Wretching, he scrambled towards his bedside table, clawing for his lamp in desperation. <em>He was covered in blood, he was covered in blood.</em></p><p>Objects clattered beneath his fumbling hands and he flinched at the sound of shattering glass. Suddenly his fingers found the switch of the light and he clicked it on.</p><p>Its dull glow illuminated his familiar bedroom. His yellow walls; his solid furniture, his shut door, his books on his desk, even his discarded clothes on his rug. His skin sat clean, wet only from his own perspiration. There was no blood. It had been a dream, that was all. Just a dream. He was safe. He was home.</p><p>Home.</p><p>Letting out a strangled gasp, he leant forwards, pressing his face into his hands as he attempted to calm himself. <em>Home.</em></p><p>He had dreamed of such a notion so often when he was away. He had recalled every inch of this room, of this house - every smell, every touch, every feeling. Yet it was so unlike how he remembered, so unfamiliar, so alien.</p><p>It was as though he were blind. He had been guided to a room and informed that it was exactly as he had left it. Everything about it was the same, yet it was a room he had been in before and no one would convince him otherwise. This wasn't the home he had left behind.</p><p>
  <em>This wasn't home.</em>
</p><p>As his heart rate finally began to calm, he began to acclimatise to his surroundings. Only then did he realise just quite how wet he felt. Frowning, he peeled back his eiderdown to inspect the sheets beneath. They were drenched. </p><p>
  <em>Had he somehow knocked over his water? </em>
</p><p>He searched the room for his upturned glass. No, it couldn't be that. His drink now lay soaking into his bedroom rug beneath shards of his Mother's shattered cut crystal. A result of his frenzied attempts to find the light.</p><p>He peeled his lower sheets back, realisation and shame suddenly hitting him like a freight train as he was greeted he was by the familiar, acrid stench of ammonia that clawed him straight back to the Pacific.</p><p>He’d wet his bed.</p><p>Eugene let out a strangled moan, his gut clenching, sheer mortification crippling him. He buried his face back into his hands as he succumbed to his own abject desolation, letting out a gasping sob. Twenty-two years old, unable to sleep through the night without waking up crying and drenched in his own piss. <em>Like a fucking baby.</em></p><p>What was wrong with him?</p><p>It had been three months since he’d returned from war. This was supposed to be getting easier. He was supposed to be getting better. Everyone had promised it would get better.</p><p>This wasn't getting better. The nightmares were only getting worse; he was having more episodes throughout the day and now... this? FUCK.</p><p>Tears burnt against his eyes and he succumbed to them, rocking himself as he cried, sniffling pitifully in his soaked bed.</p><p>
  <em>It wasn’t supposed to be like this; it wasn’t supposed to be like this.</em>
</p><p>There was a hesitant knock on his bedroom door.</p><p>‘Go away!’ He cried in a strangled grunt before his Father had even had time to speak.</p><p>‘Eugene…’ His concerned voice murmured.</p><p>‘I’m <em>fine</em>.’ He rebuked, weakly, his voice cracking on the lie. ‘Just… just... go back to bed.’</p><p>He glanced down at his soiled pyjama bottoms and more tears flowed. He curled in on himself, blanching at the prospect of his Father walking in on such a sight. The prospect of his Father seeing how piteous he had become.</p><p>‘Son, if you need me... just... call.’ His Father’s voice urged, before the sound of whispering in the hallway followed. He listened for the creak of footfall and the click of his parent’s bedroom door before letting out an agonising sob, his chest contracting as angry, dejected tears continued to fall down his cheeks, dripping from his face onto his wet pyjamas and bedding.</p><p>He wanted to die.</p><p>
  <em>It wasn't supposed to be like this.</em>
</p><p>He suddenly let out a yelp of disgust, overcome by the desperate urge to be rid of his dirty clothing. Shoving the covers completely off himself, he glanced to the floor to see shards of glass adorned across his rug.</p><p>He simply didn't have the mental wherewithal to deal with the mess right now, he would do it in the morning.</p><p>Pressing his back flush against the wall, Eugene crawled along the expanse of his bed until he reached the foot. Ever careful not to expose his six to the threat of an attack. Pausing, he realised his force of habit. He didn't have to cover his own back anymore.</p><p>The only danger he faced in Alabama was his parents' invasive interjection as they assisted his 'recovery' progress. A threat which he found to far supersede the peril of any Jap attack. As an act of defiance, he climbed over his baseboard his back going unprotected as he hopped to a glass-free patch of floor. </p><p>Gritting his teeth, he unbuttoned his trousers, yanking the wet garment down his legs with a humiliated sob.</p><p>He was wet from his waist down to his knees. He balled the pyjamas up and scrubbed the portion of dry fabric across his skin to clear any remnants of the mess. He cast a glance to the door, debating whether to creep to the bathroom.</p><p>Yet the bathroom was just so very far and the prospect of having to engage with his parents both exhausted him and filled him with utter dread. He was enough of a burden to them without them seeing this side of him.</p><p>Then there was the shower itself. He'd have to turn the water on and it would be a good ten minutes before it was hot. Then the act of bathing. </p><p>He let out a low grunt of attrition. Even the prospect of such an endeavour exhausted him. He could wait until morning, too.</p><p>Reaching for his chest of drawers, he rummaged in the bottom drawer for spare pyjamas. He yanked out a pair, letting out a sigh of frustration when the item turned out to be a shirt. He fumbled through the neatly laundered contents, scrunching the garments in a haphazard attempt to locate a pair. His energy was depleting at an astonishing rate as he finally found a suitable pair of trousers. </p><p>He shimmied them on, ignoring the smell of ammonia that wafted to his nose as he dressed - he could wash in the morning. After all, he hadn't bathed for the last two days either and before that, it had been almost a week, so he wasn't exactly a stranger to the feeling of grubbiness. He was immaculate compared to the state of him during the war.</p><p>
  <em>The war. </em>
</p><p>He stuttered a breath, glancing towards his bed. The sheets were drenched and tangled, there was nothing he could do about it now. Nothing he had the energy to do.</p><p>He crossed the room towards the back of his bedroom door, reaching for the bathrobe that hung there. He moved to his desk, yanking out the chair, before falling to his hands and knees and crawling beneath it.</p><p>It was quiet beneath his desk. Enclosed. The air was calmer beneath here, it smelt like his high school homework. He drew his legs up to his chest, scrunching his shoulders so he could reposition his back against the wall. Shrugging his robe over his head, he clutched his hands around his knee, settling into the darkness that engulfed him. </p><p>The air around his clothed body was chilly. He shivered slightly, it was comforting. The cold reminded him of Okinawa.</p><p>Yet beneath the bathrobe, it was muggy. It only took a few breaths for his face to become sticky from the closeness of his own breath. He inhaled it, the stifling, oppressive air returning him to the safety of Pavuvu.</p><p>The wooden floor beneath him was uncomfortably hard. It was almost like the feel of dry dirt beneath him.</p><p>He shut his eyes.</p><p>Sometimes it was enough, trying to convince himself that he was back there - shrouded in the safety of war where his mind didn't have the opportunity to process the trauma surrounding him, compared to being back home where he found he faced the danger of nothing <em>but </em>time. When he repositioned himself into the mind-set of wartime Eugene, he found that his body surrendered into fight-or-flight. Sleep came easily, exhaustion overtaking him.</p><p>Tonight was not one of those nights.</p><p>Ack-Ack loomed behind his eyelids, the hand lunged for him through the Pill-Box, the baby’s dead eyes stared back at him.</p><p>He forced the images forward; finding them so much easier to process than the ever-present image of Merriell’s face staring down at him.</p><p>Eugene's chest clenched at the sight, a sickening feeling growing in his stomach.</p><p>‘Go away.’ He whispered, his stiff voice cracking through the air.</p><p>Yet the Merriell in his mind was as stubborn as the Merriell in real life.</p><p>
  <em>He licked his lower lip, dragging the skin through his teeth as he flicked his gaze from Eugene’s eyes to his mouth and back again. Scrutinising him beneath his overwhelming glare.</em>
</p><p>‘Go <em>away</em>.’ Eugene repeated his voice rising with hysteria as the sight of Merriell before him grew only more real. He desperately tried to re-envision the greying baby in his grasp. It was a futile effort; his nightmares always won.</p><p>
  <em>‘No.’ He rebuked simply, settling warmly beside him. 'Think you need me tonight.' </em>
</p><p>Eugene was furious with himself as he felt Merriell's arm settling around his shoulder. He gently pulled him forward, tucking his face against his collar. Eugene breathed him in.</p><p>He hadn’t smelt of gunsmoke in China, where they had properly become acquainted with one another’s bodies. He’d smelt like clean skin and the cheap Chinese cigarettes that he had become partial to.</p><p>
  <em>He smelt like that now.</em>
</p><p>He smelt exactly how Eugene remembered, tinged with the aroma of sleep and the tang of their bedroll, with the promise of a life together, in safety, with no war and no more pain. </p><p>Before life had turned out like this.</p><p>
  <em>‘You got y’yself in quite the mess, ain’t ya, Sledgehammer?’ He murmured, his lips pressing to the crown of Eugene’s hair.</em>
</p><p>‘You’re not really here.’ Eugene objected, with a shake of his head, vaguely aware his only companion beneath the desk was his bathrobe. Yet the memory of Merriell's touch was too vivid to ignore.</p><p>
  <em>‘Does that matter right now?’ He asked, his voice soft as he ran a hand along Eugene’s cheek.</em>
</p><p>Eugene kept his eyes clenched his eyes shut, petrified if he were to open them that the voice and the image would disappear as reality would inevitably engulf him and his terror would resume.</p><p>His chest quivering agonisingly, tears leaking from his eyes as pitiful tears broke from his body. ‘No.’ He admitted, desolately.</p><p>
  <em>‘Then nothin’ to worry on right now.’ Merriell surmised, his fingers toying through Eugene’s hair. His mouth peppering kisses against his scalp as he rocked them both, soothing the dangers of any further nightmares that night. </em>
</p><p>The familiar French lullaby rang in Eugene's ears through the stillness of the night, broken only by the sound of his own sobs.</p>
<hr/><p>Eugene's eyes sprang open beneath the glare of morning light streaming in through the crack in his curtains. </p><p>He startled, glancing to his side where he had dreamt Merriell to be. Unsurprisingly, he found himself to be alone, still curled beneath his wooden desk, his bathrobe now lying slumped against his shoulders from where it had slid from over his head.</p><p>He shut his eyes, pressing his cheek to the wooden table leg, attempting to rebuild his energy for another day of socialising with his parents.</p><p>
  <em>Today was going to be better.</em>
</p><p>Suddenly a voice broke out across the room.</p><p>‘Eugene?’</p><p>He startled, jumping violently, his head cracking against the underside of the desktop with a thud. He grunted, heart pounding.</p><p>‘Sorry, son, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ His Father urged, his voice tight and restrained.</p><p>Eugene blanched. ‘It’s… it’s fine.’ He answered, stiffly, rubbing his crown. The tenderness of Merriell’s kisses against his skin still lingering. No matter whether they had been in dream form or not.</p><p>A silence fell, during which Eugene surmised his Father had no intention of leaving without a conversation.</p><p>‘What are you doing under the desk, son?’ He asked, gently.</p><p>Humiliation tore through Eugene. He felt violated to have been witnessed in such a vulnerable position. He lowered his head to his mismatched pyjamas, suddenly remembering his soiled bedsheets. Mortification ebbed through him as he drew his knees to his chest to shield himself.</p><p>‘Helps me sleep.’ He confessed, quietly, shifting his gaze slightly to bring his Father into view. He was sat on his desk chair beside the door – clearly having been there for some time.</p><p>His Father let out a low breath, glancing anywhere that was not his son before his eyes settled.</p><p>
  <em>The bed. </em>
</p><p>Eugene followed his gaze across the room.</p><p>The sheets were jumbled and so unquestionably stained yellow. His bedside lamp lay knocked onto its side. The broken picture of he and his brother fishing as children lay shattered amongst the debris on the floor, mixed with the broken cut crystal tumbler of his Mother’s. His alarm clock concluded the mess on the rug, its face adding to the broken glass pile.</p><p>He hung his head. He didn't remember it being so bad.</p><p>‘Would you like to talk?’ His Father asked after a moment.</p><p>Eugene shook his head, lowering his gaze back to his knees.</p><p>He heard the audible breath his Father took. ‘Why don't you run on and take a shower - I’ll ask Annie to come and cle…’</p><p>‘No.’ Eugene murmured, stiffly. He sniffed, wiping at his nose. 'I don't want anyone knowing... I...' He swallowed, finally braving his glance back to his Father. He withered beneath his scrupulous stare. 'I need to sort it... I'll clear it up... please, don't tell anybody.'</p><p>He gave a small nod, paired with a sympathetic smile. ‘Whatever you need, son.’ He assured him. </p><p>Eugene wanted the ground to swallow him. His Father spoke quietly as though he were a spooked animal. <em>As though he were one of his patients</em>.</p><p>‘How long have you been…’ He began but Eugene interrupted him, finding the verbalisation of his exploit simply unbearable.</p><p>‘Last... last night was...' He trailed off, struggling to speak through his mortification. '... was the first time. Last night was the first time.'</p><p>A pregnant silence descended between them.</p><p>‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Eugene.’ His Father stated, his voice sounding as though he was preparing a full conversation on the topic.</p><p>Eugene let out a disgusted groan, burying his face into his knees as he held his hands in submission.</p><p>‘Please…' He gasped. '...don’t… I don’t want to talk about it.’ He paused. 'I....<em>I can't... </em>talk about it.' He felt his Father's gaze burning into him. ‘When I’m… ready to talk… I’ll talk.’</p><p>There was another silence.</p><p>‘All right.’</p><p>The chair scraped against the wooden floor as he rose to his feet.</p><p>‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ Eugene begged into his knees, before braving another glance up. ‘You won’t tell Mother?’</p><p>‘I won’t.’ He responded. ‘I’ll... get you some… medication… for the… Enuresis.’</p><p>There was yet another pregnant pause as he struggled to walk away without having the last word.</p><p>‘It is <em>nothing</em> to be ashamed of, Eugene.’ He repeated. 'I'll tell Annie I need a hot wash for tomorrow - so the machine will be ready in the parlour, I suppose.' With that, he left the room, the door clicking behind him.</p><p>Eugene was unsure how long he remained beneath the desk before he eventually crawled out. His resolve for today being better lying in as many fragmented pieces as his Mother's glass.</p><p>After several minutes steadying himself, he rummaged wearily in his drawers for fresh clothes before following his father from the room in the direction for the bathroom.</p>
<hr/><p>‘Your Aunt is coming to stay.’ His Mother announced over dinner several evenings later.</p><p>Eugene pushed his meat around his plate with his fork; he had ever much liked roast pork. ‘Which Aunt?’ He asked quietly.</p><p>‘Aunt Eleanor.’ She continued, before gesturing to his plate with her napkin. ‘Don’t play with your food, Eugene.’</p><p>He lowered his fork like a chastised child.</p><p>‘That’s nice.’ He answered, impassively. For want of nothing better to stay. 'That she's coming.'</p><p>‘Isn’t it?’ She pressed. ‘She’s bringing Dotty, too. They’re coming up for the celebrations. Your brother and Martha are coming too, isn’t that lovely?’</p><p>Eugene went to nod obediently, before registering her statement a moment later. ‘Celebrations?’ He asked, with a frown.</p><p>‘Of course!' She answered, tutting at his obtuseness. 'Our <em>fourth of July party?</em>’</p><p>‘Of course.’ He mirrored, with a frown. He pinched the bridge of his nose.</p><p>His parents had held their Independence Day Celebrations since he was a child, it was the event of his Mother's summer. He felt idiotic for having forgotten. Then again, he found himself getting so easily muddled that the days drifted away from him. He hadn't even realised it was June until that afternoon.</p><p>‘We’ll be having our usual soiree.’ She continued, seemingly oblivious to her son’s lack of investment in the conversation. ‘It’s the first time in<em> five years</em> you’ll both be at home.’ She stated, shaking her head with a blissful adoration that rendered Eugene with a growing emptiness. ‘Did you celebrate Independence Day in Japan?’</p><p>‘Sometimes.’ He answered, quietly, no longer bothering to correct her for the <em>hundredth time</em> to the fact that where he fought was nowhere near Japan. ‘Depended if we were in-country or not.’ He added, hoping the further interjection of information may override any more questions on the matter.</p><p>‘Well, it’s like you were never gone.’ She stated, with a delighted smile. She reached over and grabbed his hand. ‘I’ll get Annie to make you an Ambrosia Salad – <em>just how you like it</em>.’</p><p>He glanced up at her. She was wearing such an earnest expression, that mortifyingly it drew tears to his eyes.</p><p>He cleared his throat, yanking his hand away and blinking furiously. He still wasn’t used to such overt affection. Not anymore. </p><p>‘I would like that.’ He murmured, his voice tighter than it should have been. He felt brave enough to glance back at her and force a smile to his face. ‘Thank you, Mother…’ He paused. ‘But if the cherries aren’t glazed…’</p><p>‘You won’t touch them with a ten-foot rod.’ She interrupted, with an affectionate chuckle. ‘I would expect nothing less, my love.’</p><p>He smiled again, a little hesitantly. That wasn’t what he was going to say.</p><p>The old Eugene would have turned his nose up at plain cherries; being as immature as he had.</p><p>He’d tried ordinary cherries on the banks of the Peking after Merriell had come across some in a market. He’d attempted to refuse them, having hated them since he was a child.</p><p>
  <em>Merriell had barked with laughter. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'How old’re ya?’ He rebuked, with a click of his tongue. ‘Ya fine livin' off maggoty rice but you still too good for a plain old cherry? I’ll make a man outta you, boy - just watch.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘I’m allowed to dislike cherries.’ Eugene had defended, his exasperation hot against his skin. ‘Besides I li…’ His sentence was cut off by a hand on his nape and warm lips against his own. His objections fell muted as he melted against the familiar kiss.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Suddenly Merriell pulled away, a smug expression on his face. Eugene, felt something sweet and solid in his mouth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘You’re a bastard.’ He hissed, around a mouthful of cherry.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell snorted. ‘Just try it.’ He insisted. ‘If ya really don’t like it I won’t force no more.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene tried it; if only to shut him up. It wasn’t half bad.</em>
</p><p>‘Eugene, I’m talking to you.’ His Mother’s voice announced, drawing him back to reality.</p><p>He blinked. She was gazing at him expectantly.</p><p>‘Sorry.’ He murmured, clearly having lost part of the conversation. He did that a lot.</p><p>‘I was saying.’ She repeated, glancing over her shoulder to the closed door of his Father’s office with a tertiary glance. ‘Aunt Eleanor’s nerves aren’t what they were.’</p><p>‘Poor Aunt Eleanor.’ He murmured robotically, gazing at his food. Because that was what people with normal emotions did. They sympathised.</p><p>His Mother made an approving cluck in the back of her throat.</p><p>‘To ensure she’s as comfortable as she can possibly be.’ She continued, choosing her words carefully. ‘I think it would be most courteous for us to allow her an…’ She wiped her mouth with the edge of her napkin. ‘… uninterrupted night sleep.’</p><p>His gut twitched with understanding at her sentiment. His mind flitted to his drying bedding over the back veranda. His Father had been wrong; it hadn't been a one-time occurrence. It had been every fucking night since he had first awoken with sodden pyjamas. It was his latest agony since returning from China; his latest shame. God, he would sleep on newspaper if given the choice.  Maybe outside, like a dog. Like he deserved.</p><p>Annie knew; he knew that. She had stopped giving him the perplexed expression after the third day he had asked to use the Avco Washer that she had been rolling out of the parlour since his high school years. <em>'Bakin' soda.' </em>She had murmured, running an affectionate hand down his back. <em>'Gets the stains out.'</em></p><p>She'd tried to be nice; be supportive. He'd wanted to crumble into the dirt at his feet. Where he felt like he belonged.</p><p>‘We would all enjoy an uninterrupted night sleep, Mother.’ He stated quietly after several pained moments. ‘Me most of all.’</p><p>‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ She responded, frowning at him as though he had accused her of something. ‘Don’t twist my words.’</p><p>His stomach flipped with helpless irritation as mortification mottled across his skin.</p><p>‘I’m not twisting anything.’ He answered, pressing his gaze to the lemon-coloured table cloth to save looking anywhere else.</p><p>‘I’m just saying.’ She surmised. ‘We’ve had the last few weeks to process you being home, it’s time to look to the future… don’t you agree, son?’</p><p>He nodded, mutely, for there was never any arguing with his Mother.</p><p>‘You need to head back up to college by the end of the month – enrolment ends in July.’</p><p>A panic spread across him, hair prickling on the back of his neck at such a terrifying prospect.</p><p>He swallowed. ‘I... I told you I... I ain’t ready yet.’ He mumbled. ‘I’m not <em>equipped for anything</em>.’ He reached forward for a bread roll with a scoff. ‘That's what the girl told me.’</p><p>‘Nonsense!’ She rebuked with a wave of her hand, watching as he picked at the bread in his grasp. ‘It’s an excellent medical programme… according to Myrna Phillips - Sidney <em>adores</em> it… and you’ve been going to appointments with your Father since you were a slip of a boy you know more know than half the half-wits graduating!’</p><p>Eugene cleared his throat, this was yet another argument they had been having since his return. One that left him exhausted.</p><p>‘Told you, Mama.’ He murmured. ‘I ain’t cut out to be a doctor.’</p><p>‘Nonsense!’ She repeated. ‘You’ve always had a wonderful bedside manner, always been such a caring boy!’</p><p>Eugene’s mind flashed to Pavuvu.</p><p>
  <em>A body slumped over the side of a rack, broken French screamed out into the night, burning skin and fevers. The stench of disease.</em>
</p><p>He tore bread off the roll in neat strips. ‘I don’t want to be a doctor, Eddie and I have been telling you that since we were ten years old.’</p><p>‘Why ever not?’ She demanded, as though he were refusing to nip to the store as opposed to pick his life's career path based on her whims. ‘Give me <em>one</em> reason why not?’</p><p>
  <em>A baby screaming. A woman dying in his arms. A girl at the side of the trail. The explosion and squelch of flesh being torn apart by mortars. Bill agonisingly writhing in the dirt. </em>
</p><p>‘I don’t want to.’ He repeated, shaking his head, heat erupting throughout his skin as suddenly the room became constrictive. He pulled at his collar, feeling his Mother gaze penetrating him.</p><p>
  <em>An unnamed Boot blown apart by a grenade as he’s launched through the air. The sound of that familiar voice shrieking his name. Agony erupting through his body and the mouthful of belt as he screamed against the pain.</em>
</p><p>‘Don’t do that you’ll stretch the fabric.’ His Mother chastised distantly. ‘<em>I don’t want</em> to isn’t an answer.’</p><p>
  <em>Hamm blankly gazing up at him. The sickening tang of blood. Peck's screams. 'FUCK YOU, EUGENE!' Ack-Ack's kind eyes staring lifelessly from the stretcher. Haney quivering in the wreckage of Peleilui. </em>
</p><p>'Eugene, I'm taking to you - give me <em>one </em>good reason why not?' </p><p>‘BECAUSE I’VE SEEN ENOUGH FUCKIN' BLOOD AND DEATH TO LAST ME A DAMN LIFETIME!’ He shouted, fury overtaking him as he slammed his fist against the table in a desolate rage. The bread roll fell on top of his untouched dinner. An agonised silence descended. <em>‘Y’happy?’ </em>He added, quietly, his heart pounded with exasperated anger. He made the mistake of glancing up to his Mother as he spoke.</p><p>Regret immediately flooded Eugene’s stomach, eroding any previous emotions as he took in the horror-stricken expression on her face.</p><p>He tried so hard to continue the facade of normality, for her sake. She liked to pretend that war didn’t exist inside her son’s bones, he didn't think she had the capacity to believe otherwise. He envied her.</p><p>'I'm sorry.' He gasped, unable to look at her for the tears swelling in his eyes. 'I'm sorry.' His voice cracked, and a strangled breath fell from him. His chest quivered as he searched desperately for something to say. ‘I’ll try and be quieter at night.’ He murmured, after a moment. 'You... you tell Aunt Eleanor she ain't got nothin' to worry about.'</p><p>Eugene rose to his feet, still unable to look at her for his own shame. Without another word he headed for the back door, distantly hearing the sound of his Father’s office door and the murmuring of voices.</p>
<hr/><p>He struggled to smoke his pipe, these days.</p><p>The monotony of packing, cleaning and smoking used to be a grounding line for him. Something to do, something to stabilise his wavering hands. Now even the thought of it exhausted him.</p><p>He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes – Camel. He’d tried smoking Lucky Strikes back in April only to bring them right back up. They tasted of the burning sun of Peleilu and they smelt like his muddy foxhole in Okinawa. <em>They reminded him so painfully of what had been.</em></p><p>Camels smelt like nothing more than the back porch of his parents’ house. Camels smelt like nothing more than his nightmares, his flashbacks and his exhaustively long days. They tasted of the opportunity to escape unwanted conversations due to his parents' hatred of his and his brother's smoking habit.</p><p>He had been outside for nearing an hour when the porch door opened behind him.</p><p>‘I’ll apologise to her.’ He announced, recognising the hesitant footfall of his Father. He took a deep inhale of the cigarette, the nicotine burning the back of his throat.</p><p>‘She tries.’ His Father responded, apologetically. ‘She only wants what’s best for you – you know she doesn’t mean to be callous.’</p><p>Eugene nodded, keeping his gaze fixed to the rapidly sinking sky.</p><p>He was quiet for a moment. ‘When will it end?’ He asked, quietly.</p><p>The chair opposite him creaked and he glanced to see his Father sitting down, a tense expression on his face.</p><p>‘Define<em> it.</em>’ He murmured.</p><p>Eugene let out a titter, rubbing his right eye with his ring finger as he tried to buy himself a few precious moments to decide how delicately he wished to word his ailments. ‘Being twenty-two years old and <em>pissing myself</em>.’ He responded eloquently. ‘Havin' someone ask me a mundane question and being flashed back like I’m still... <em>there</em>.'  He took a drag of his cigarette. 'The... duckin' at loud noises, the... the...'</p><p>With a hysterical snort, he lifted a bread roll from his trouser pocket, slamming it against the table.</p><p>'Hoardin' <em>food</em> without even fuckin' realisin' it because somethin' tells me I don't know where the next meals' comin' from... you tell me Pop, <em>when have I ever liked rye rolls?!' </em></p><p>He furiously tossed it off the veranda, watching as it landed six feet short of the bird table. He took another drag of his cigarette.</p><p>'The scream…’ His voice wavered and he did his best to steady it. ‘The <em>screamin'.</em>’ He repeated, quietly. ‘I just… want…’ He took a deep drag. ‘I just want to stop the screamin' to stop.’ He sniffed. 'Everythin' else I can cope with.'</p><p>His Father took a breath beside him, remaining unshaken by his outburst.</p><p>‘War clings to individuals in different ways.’ He said, unhelpfully. ‘It… manifests… sometimes in flashbacks… in learned behaviours... in nightmares... in anger outbursts…’ He trailed off and Eugene felt his eyes boring into him, intensely. ‘Yet Battle Fatigue - <em>in time</em> - almost always gets easier.’</p><p>‘How much time?’ Eugene asked, quietly.</p><p>‘There’s no one size fits all.’ His Father responded.</p><p>‘Ballpark?’ Eugene rebuked. ‘Am I gonna be sleeping on rubber sheets longer than my kids?’ </p><p><em>Kids. </em>He blanched. <em>He didn't want kids.</em></p><p>‘I wouldn’t say so.’ His Father answered. ‘On average, most men have made almost a full recovery after being home for five or so years.’</p><p>Eugene let out a bitter laugh. ‘Best get investin’ in some adult diapers then.’ He muttered, ruefully. His eyeline sinking to his ringless left hand, the ornate jewellery that lay in his seabag in the attic being yet another reminder of the war that had proved too unbearable. ‘Is there… is there a way I can speed it up?' He asked, desperately. 'Because I can't last<em> five years</em> of this. It's <em>agony </em>and I just want to forget.'  </p><p>Lucky Strikes tasted of far more virulent memories, too. They tasted of muddy lips and stolen kisses. They smelt like broken promises and empty train seats.</p><p>They held an excruciating pain he had no choice but to die with.</p><p>‘Eugene.' His Father murmured, gently. 'Even if there was a way to quicken the process - I wouldn’t... want you to.’ He cleared his throat, leaning back against the wicker chair beneath him as he searched for the right words. ‘Trauma weaves itself within us more than we know. It impacts you down to your bones... from the position you sleep in, to the way a man sits, how he raises his children….’ He trailed off. ‘To bottle that up is just like shaking a soda pop. The bubbles fester until one day… <em>boom</em>… it all explodes out. The pain you feel now... will help in the long run.’</p><p>Eugene huffed, smoked sullenly. Before something in him suddenly softened. He smiled.</p><p>‘Y’know… I knew a guy… Jensen.’ He stated. ‘Tommy Jensen… <em>Jenny...</em> we were in Boot Camp together - <em>hated</em> water – had only drunk soda for years... literally wretched at every mouthful poor guy.' He cleared his throat, taking another drag. 'So we were relieved out to Pavuvu... after Peleilu... and word was on Banika – that was the aid island over the shore… they had soda.’ He grinned, glancing to his Father who was watching him with a terse expression. ‘And they did –<em> gallons</em> of it.’ He scoffed. ‘Not that we ever saw a lick – that was reserved for the swabbies and the medics.’</p><p>He took a deep drag of his cigarette.</p><p>‘So Jenny thinks – if he can fake being ill, he can get sent over to Banika for a bit of respite… have a few weeks, good food – most importantly <em>soda</em>.’ He smiled widely at the memory, ignoring the way his Father was staring at him incredulously. ‘So there were<em> two</em> ways to be sent to Banika – million dollar wound and gettin’ something contagious. Now Jenny didn’t want an MDW, he was tricky but he wasn't gonna leave his buddies... so <em>contagious</em>, what’s contagious? Dysentry.’</p><p>Eugene grinned.</p><p>‘So he spends the best part of two weeks wanderin’ round Pavuvu lookin’ for some fowled up water and he drinks from some of the <em>nastiest</em> lookin’ puddles you can even think of. <em>I won’t tell ya some of the crap he drank tryin’ to catch this dysentery</em>  - ‘til he just gives up on it.' He huffed a laugh. 'Then we’re all sat round one night playin’ poker and suddenly, Jenny just goes <em>white</em>.’</p><p>He grinned at his Father, leaning a hand over the table as he recounted the story. More animated than he had been in weeks. ‘I’m talking Caspar the Ghost, Clan lookin' -<em> white</em> as a <em>sheet</em>.’ He let out a genuine laugh. ‘And we say… <em>Jenny what’s wrong</em>?’ He laughed again, a bone deep chuckle. ‘And he opens his mouth to reply and he just hurls like nothin’ you’ve ever seen and then he’s hurlin’ and hurlin’ and hurlin’ and the next thing… it’s... comin’ out the other end too… aaaaalll the way down his legs.’ He let out a wretch at the memory. ‘And the next day, Jenny got sent out to Banika and each time he tried to drink the soda it all came streamin’ down - so the whole thing was a waste of time anyhow.’</p><p>His Father smiled, softly. ‘He sounds a wise crack.’ He surmised. ‘You should get him out to visit.’</p><p>Eugene's smile suddenly fell much smaller, he took another drag, averting his gaze to his knees. 'Yeah, I won't be doin' that, Pop.' He murmured.</p><p>‘Why not?’ He asked, dumbly.</p><p>‘Because we held him as he died on Wana Ridge.’ He surmised, simply, all traces of joy sliding from his expression as he recalled the memory. ‘Was... he was shot in the spine.’ He murmured, rolling his lip against his teeth. ‘Paralysed just like <em>that</em>.’ He clicked to emulate his point, trying to ignore the way his Father flinched.</p><p>‘You’ve gotta stroke their face.’ He added quietly, averting his gaze back to his bread roll before looking back at him. ‘D’ya know that?’</p><p>His Father only stared at him.</p><p>‘’s... the only thing y’can feel when you’ve been paralysed.’ He stated, quietly. 'Your face.'</p><p>He licked his lip, grief flushing his body at the thought of every one of his fallen friends. His eyes began to prick, painfully.</p><p>‘Y’hold ‘em like this.’ He continued, hooking his arm through the air as he supported an imaginary body. ‘Like a<em> baby</em>.’ Images flooded to his mind. ‘Hold ‘em up like a baby and you angle their chin up, just so, so they can’t do nothin' but look at ya…' His breath caught.  '... so they can’t see the blood when it comes out their mouth.’</p><p>The first tear threatened against his eye as he sniffed, dropping his imaginary comrade in favour of wiping his eye.</p><p>‘And y’tell ‘em it’s <em>fine</em>.’ He continued, the effort proving fruitless as another and another took its place. ‘You lie to ‘em, you lie <em>so well</em> that even you believe it – <em>ain’t shit, you’ll be fine, Corpsman’s comin’</em> - and sometimes, dependin’ who it is… you tell ‘em you love ‘em.’ He sniffed, wiping the steams of tears away furiously with his fingers. ‘Just so they ain’t dyin’ in the dirt like a damn dog thinkin’ no one gives a shit.’ He cleared his throat stiffly, taking a steadying breath as he composed himself. ‘And they just stare up at ya, until they just...’ He gestured with his hand in front of his face. ‘Til they’re just gone.’</p><p>He took a drag of his cigarette, his hands shaking visibly.</p><p>‘Then after that you take their dog tags, take their valuables if you can, anything from their family… cos... cos the Japs liked to piss on it all. Shit on it sometimes… shit on <em>them.</em>’ Eugene lowered his gaze. ‘And you just left ‘em and there’s a letter sent out. From a Lieutenant who didn’t know him from adam expressing how <em>sorry they are.</em>’ He scoffed, his anguish palpable. ‘They ain’t sorry.’ He shrugged, holding up a finger as he took a deep drag. ‘Only ever knew <em>one</em> Officer who gave a shit about his men - Captain Haldane.’ Eugene nodded. ‘He was a good man – <em>a gentleman</em>.’</p><p>‘What happened to him?’ His Father asked, almost hesitantly.</p><p>‘Sniper.’ Eugene aimed a makeshift gun in between his temple, making a popping with his lips as he imitated a single shot. ‘Never knew a thing, out like a light was Ack-Ack.’ He nodded. ‘I never knew a man who deserved a painless death more.’</p><p>‘He sounds like a wonderful man.’ He murmured.</p><p>Eugene nodded, flicking his cigarette to the foot of the veranda. ‘He was.’ He agreed, twitching his nose. ‘They all were.’ He smirked. 'Could've been, at least... if they'd lived long enough.'</p><p>He saw his Father lower his gaze uncomfortably.</p><p><em>You would never last in a war, </em>he thought to himself. <em>You wouldn't last five damn minutes</em>.</p><p>His Father cleared his throat, his hands clasped before him. ‘Eugene, there are three facets that help immeasurably when dealing with the aftermath of warfare.’ He stated, moving to hold three fingers up. His language, far too formal to match the conversation Eugene was trying to have with him. ‘And before you dismiss me – <em>please</em>…'</p><p>He counted one finger.</p><p>'Firstly,<em> time</em>, that is the largest factor… time heals a myriad of wounds… secondly, writing down emotions can help immeasurably – it gets out all that agony that you're talking about when you can’t verbalise it, when you aren’t ready to verbalise it… it acts as a private validation to your feelings.’</p><p>Eugene remained silent, listening politely. He watched his Father nod, knowingly.</p><p>‘Many veterans have found it extremely cathartic.’ He took a breath. ‘And finally and I <em>know</em> you have said you don’t want to – but <em>talking</em> about what happened can help. Talking to someone who understands.’</p><p><em>Like you? </em>Eugene thought, spitefully, before guilt instantly twitched in his stomach again. <em>He's only trying to help, that was unkind. </em></p><p>He shook his head. ‘I… I don’t want to do that.’ He murmured. I <em>can’</em>t do that.</p><p>‘It wouldn’t have to be to me.’ He pressed. ‘Uncle Peter still takes on new cases or… I have a number of colleagues who are excellent!’</p><p>‘Father, please.’ Eugene held up a hand, lighting another cigarette. ‘I’m not ready to talk – I’ve told you, I’ll talk when I’m ready.’</p><p>He nodded, stiffly. ‘OK, son.’ He murmured. ‘I’ll make you a deal?’</p><p>‘What deal?’ He asked, tersely.</p><p>‘From this moment, I won’t ask you to talk again on the condition that you will start penning some thoughts… it doesn’t have to be a full account, it doesn’t have to be anything more than a few musings… it just has to be something. A thought; a memory; <em>anything</em> – just write something down…. How does that sound?’</p><p>Eugene took a drag of his cigarette, glancing away from him.</p><p>‘Do we have a Gentleman’s agreement, Gene?’ He asked, gently.</p><p>Eugene twitched. His Father only ever called him by his abbreviated name when he was truly being earnest. ‘I’ll try.’ He murmured.</p><p>‘Thank you.’ He urged, before pausing. ‘You will heal in time.’ He assured him, climbing to his feet with a pat to his shoulder. ‘Just like Edward.’</p><p>Eugene shut his eyes.</p><p>
  <em>There it was.</em>
</p><p>He had been back home for three months. Three whole months.</p><p>They had been understanding the first few weeks - supportive.</p><p>Yet after so long, their tolerance – especially his Mother’s, was wearing thin. It had been since Sid's wedding. He had had adequate time to grieve in their eyes and, despite his Father's protestations, they didn't understand why he hadn't. Their son was special. Their son wasn't like the myriad of young men from the Great War who had irreparably damaged. Their son was too good for that.</p><p>Edward had been.</p><p>Edward. <em>The prodigal son</em>.</p><p>He had spent his year since returning the US in attaining quite the American dream.</p><p>He had a pretty new wife and pretty new house out in Evergreen. He drove a pretty new car and worked in a pretty new office building. He brought pretty flowers home for his Mama whenever he came to visit and he called every Thursday and Sunday evening, regular as clockwork and he most certainly didn’t wet his bed or keep the house awake screaming.</p><p>Eugene hated him. Hated him almost as much as he hated himself. He hated him because there wasn’t an ounce of Edward that was difficult to like, <em>to love</em>.</p><p>There wasn’t an ounce of Edward that was facetious or pig-headed about his success, about the war. Edward had just returned home and gotten on with his life.</p><p>How Eugene should have done.</p><p>But Edward, as far as Eugene knew, didn’t carry anywhere near the trauma that Eugene did. Didn’t carry the shame or the secrets or the heartache.</p><p>No, Edward walked with his chosen love on his arm in a way that would have had Eugene committed had he tried to do the same.</p><p>Edward was loved, <em>by all</em>.</p><p>Eugene wasn’t.</p><p>Because you didn’t leave the people you loved behind. Not without a goodbye.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>I hate you.</em>
</p><p>Eugene scrawled at 2am three days later. Tears mottling the page of the notebook he had kept in high school, as he sat at his wooden desk in his mismatched pyjamas with his soiled clothing and sheets tossed to the floor. Memories of sweaty limbs and soft lips and curly hair had been the source of his dreams that night. He preferred the nightmares.</p><p>
  <em>I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much because there isn’t even an ounce of me that is angry. All that is in me is broken, I am only broken. I am utterly and completely shattered and I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. At least that’s what I try to tell myself. Because the truth is I can’t hate you. Not even a little bit, not even at all. The only hatred I have is for myself. All I have for you is love.</em>
</p><p>He slept under his desk more often than not, after that.</p><p>He had graduated from his bathrobe to digging his rain slicker out of his seabag that was stowed in the attic and sleeping with that over his head. It’s sickeningly rubbery tang almost fooling him that the sturdy table leg at his shoulder was his vicious Louisianan gunner, who hated everything and everyone in the world.</p><p>
  <em>Everything and everyone, except him.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading!</p><p>I would love to know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here we are with Chapter three - let's meet Eugene's brother.</p><p>I'm aware he's completely opposite to how he was shown in the TV Show, then again - aren't they all? </p><p>Siblings are important. Especially when they get you.</p><p>T/W: Detailed descriptions of PTSD, descriptions of panic/anxiety attack and psychotic break.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As June leaked into July, beyond the months, nothing very much changed.</p><p>Eugene found himself developing a routine. He bathed each morning, stripped his bed with a renewed gratitude for the rubber sheet his Father had subtly left on his desk. He washed his sheets, hung them to dry, forced a paltry breakfast down sat at the dinner table with his Mother and then spent the day avoiding other people entirely. He retired to his room after the nine o'clock news on the wireless, utterly exhausted from the day's exertion, and then awoke screaming, crying and sodden by 2 am. His schedule ran by clockwork.</p><p>Independence Day weekend, thus far, had been no different.</p><p>He had stood obligingly on the front porch with his parents as the invited relatives had descended. Aunt Eleanor and her daughter Dotty, Aunt Agatha and Uncle Derek, Great Aunt Loretta. along with a handful of others, by the time of whose arrival, his false smile and genial greeting were so well masked over his own turmoil that he was sure if he were to drop dead his departing words would have been. <em>"It's so good to see you, how was your journey?" </em></p><p>By dinner time, however, his mask had entirely slipped, rendering him almost incapable of forming a coherent sentence above his own thundering thoughts. Let alone able to spend time socialising. Hence the reason he found himself curled on the veranda alone, smoking and drinking straight from one of the appropriated bottles of brew his Uncle had brought, whilst his family mingled indoors.</p><p>‘Can I hide out here with you?’</p><p>The unexpected voice made Eugene jump abruptly, tearing him from his own thoughts. He turned to see his new sister-in-law standing by the French doors.</p><p>‘Sorry, I should know better than sneaking up on you!’ Martha apologised, holding her hands up in pardon. She remained stood awkwardly, as though unsure whether she were allowed to approach him.</p><p>Eugene smiled softly, appreciating the recognition. He nodded, gesturing to the chair opposite him.</p><p>‘Make sure to shut it all the way.’ He guided, gesturing to the ajar glass door behind her. ‘They take it as an open invitation if you leave it even a crack.’</p><p>Martha clicked, pointing at him in silent approval, before pushing it firmly shut behind herself as she joined him at the patio table.</p><p>‘If I’m asked how much longer until I have a baby I’m going to throw one of your relatives into the pond.’ She hissed, frustratedly. 'And I'm sorry if that's offensive - but it's how I feel.'</p><p>Eugene smirked. ‘Cannot say I blame you.’ He agreed. ‘Ask them their opinion on women having jobs and watch their heads... pooft!' He mimed a bomb detonating with his hands. '<em>Explode</em>.’</p><p>She laughed. ‘I’ll tell them Eugene wants to know.’ She suggested, there was a pause before she frowned. ‘What you doin’ out here by yourself?’ She asked. ‘Eddie was lookin’ for you.’</p><p>Eugene scoffed, taking a drag of his cigarette. ‘Hell, he looked <em>real</em> hard!’ He responded. ‘Luitenant Sledge is <em>extremely</em> observant what with me being so damn hidden.'</p><p>Martha snorted in response.</p><p>'Na, your husband looking for the bottom of that whiskey bottle he been clutchin' onto talkin' to our Uncle Derek.’ He surmised. ‘He ain’t looking for nothin' else.’</p><p>She smiled, reaching into her purse and withdrawing her own cigarettes and placing one in her mouth. ‘You have him pretty clued up, don’t ya?’</p><p>Eugene watched as she lit one, he lowered his gaze. <em>Lucky Strikes.</em></p><p>He cleared his throat. ‘You don’t spend a childhood listening to him grind his damn teeth all night and running away from his purple nurples without sussing the guy out.’ He responded, lightly.</p><p>He liked Martha; had done since they had been properly introduced in the days after he had returned from war. His Mother had made him don his Service Alphas to show off like he were a damn show pony. Wearing his uniform had been unbearable; meeting Martha hadn't.</p><p>Talking to her was easy. He’d known her a little as a teenager, but not <em>properly</em>. She was unlike any other girl had ever met and made his brother so incredibly happy that he would have liked her even if she had been as much of a god-fearing socialite as his Mother.</p><p>His brother and Martha were the only visits to the house he looked forward to. They were the only people where he found conversation came easily. Edward acted like he was still normal, despite the knowledge he knew he wasn't. Martha hadn't known pre-war Eugene enough to notice the differences between the boy who had left and the man who had returned.</p><p>Regardless of whether they found him as difficult as his parents did; they never made him feel like an inconvenience. That meant more to him than he thought he would ever be able to verbalise.</p><p>Eugene found it amusing that he would have been so tongue-tied around her before the war. She was beautiful, with light hair and soft skin - just his type when he himself had been a god-fearing teenager. Now? His type was foul-mouthed Cajuns with unruly curls and kind eyes.</p><p><em>Kind? </em>Ha. Merriell would punch him stupid for such a notion.</p><p>He wrinkled his nose.</p><p><em>Merriell could go fuck himself</em>.</p><p>Eugene lowered his gaze instantly; he didn't mean that. He didn't have it in him to mean that. He would willingly hack off his own genitalia with a rusty pair of secateurs to see Merriell walking up the garden path.</p><p>No, he'd drunk far too much of his Uncle Derek's home-brewed pear cider and he needed to calm down.</p><p>'God, that teeth grindin'.’ She agreed, over his thoughts. He raised his gaze to see her rolling her eyes and pulling a face of abject disgust. ‘I’m glad I have someone to share my pain.’</p><p>He surveyed her for a moment. No, Martha may not have been his type, but he liked her all the same. She was funny, she embarrassed his brother and she never asked him stupid questions about the war. Yet mostly she was kind; cripplingly kind. He adored that about her. It was such an uncommon facet in a person.</p><p>Eugene smiled. ‘Yeah?’ He asked, sceptically. ‘Hell – I was <em>stuck</em> with him – you chose to marry the asshole.’</p><p>She pulled a face of resignation. ‘I did, didn’t I?’ She murmured, with a dejected sigh. ‘Dang it!’</p><p>He huffed a light laugh, before holding his hands out. ‘So welcome to the Sledges' fourth of July weekend – celebrated in the same abysmal way each year.’</p><p>She grinned. ‘You’ve missed it then?’ She asked.</p><p>‘Hoh!’ He cried an exaggerated noise of agreement, clenching his fists with fake euphoria in front of him as Martha doubled over with laughter. ‘What’s not to love?’ He demanded sarcastically, taking a drag of his cigarette.  ‘Friends and family <em>swarm in</em>, none of whom we like. Mother always argues with her sisters but is too embarrassed to admit it so she tries to carry on as normal but everyone heard the whole altercation so it just turns.... <em>horrendously</em> awkward. She finds vol-au-vents that must have been leftover from Christmas for how damn stale they are and spends a good hour and a half trying to palm them off going <em>"isn't it a wonderful evening"</em> whilst <em>clearly crying.</em>'</p><p>Eugene paused, watching as Martha clutched at her stomach as her whole body shook with laughter. He missed that - that untouchable euphoria. Yet he persisted in his rhetoric. For watching someone he cared about being so carefree made him, even if just for a moment, feel a little lighter. </p><p>He flicked ash into the tray on the table, taking another drag before continuing. 'Beyond Mother's<em> shenanigans</em> - Uncle Derek always makes an inappropriate comment about some young family friend, Aunt Agatha gets angry. Father just disappears. To where? No one is quite sure even though the<em> same thing</em> has happened for the last twenty-five years.’ He took another drag as Martha coughed out, winded from the exertion of laughing.</p><p>He gestured inwards. ‘Eddie then thinks it’s a good idea to invite his friends round without telling anyone - Great Aunt Loretta thinks they're some kind of relation but is too proud to admit she has no clue who they are. One year Grandma <em>died</em> and we still had to set off the goddamn fireworks – honestly, this makes war look like a church picnic.’ He surmised.</p><p>She took several moments to compose herself, chuckling as she wiped at her eyes. ‘You’re funny.’ She stated, affectionately. ‘How come you ain’t got a girl?’</p><p>Eugene huffed a laugh, the sentence settling uncomfortably in his stomach.</p><p>‘Now who’s sounding like Aunt Eleanor?’ He responded, rubbing his nose absently.</p><p>Martha stared at him with a thoughtful expression on her face, raising her cigarette to her mouth.</p><p>‘What?’ He asked, bemusedly, yet before she could answer, a familiar voice interrupted them.</p><p>'MARTHA?!'</p><p>'Oh Lord.' Eugene surmised. 'Here comes Christopher Columbus - in search of his lost family members.'</p><p>On cue, Edward stumbled through the French doors, drunkenly tripping over his own feet as he lurched towards the table at which his wife and brother hid.</p><p>'I found ya!’ He exclaimed, clapping at his own accomplishments as he slumped on the vacant chair in between his brother and his wife. 'Honey?' He asked, plucking the cigarette out of her fingers and taking a long drag before clumsily trying to poke it back into her mouth.</p><p>‘Yes, Edward?’ She responded, yanking the burning cigarette from his precarious fingers.</p><p>‘I'd avoid Aunt Eleanor if I were you’ He stated, blearily. ‘I told her you was still working and she called you a bad homemaker so I called her a fascist and she didn't really like that. So she ain't really a fan of neither of us at the moment.’ </p><p>Eugene wheezed, despite himself. Choking on the smoke of his cigarette as he succumbed to fits of laughter. </p><p>That had always been Edward. He had never been afraid to call out an injustice or something he didn't agree with, whereas Eugene would angrily stew. He envied that about him. Edward wasn't afraid of anybody or anything. Not like him.</p><p>‘Why in God's name did you call your Aunt a fascist?!’ Martha admonished, pushing against her husband's shoulder angrily, before covering her eyes with her hand. 'God, all your family will think I don't like them.'</p><p>Edward nudged the glass decanter into her spare hand in solidarity.</p><p>‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ She murmured gratefully, downing its contents.</p><p>Eugene sniffed, the intimacy of such unity sending a burning grip to the pit of his stomach. He forced a smile, masking any sign of his pain. 'If it's any consolation, they don't like us either and we're <em>related </em>to them.' He sympathised.</p><p>‘Gene!’ Edward cried, turning to his brother with a grin, as though only realising he was there.</p><p>‘Yeah, Ed?’ He responded, with a sigh. Dealing with his drunken brother was usually testing, to say the least.</p><p>‘I’m real glad you’re home, bud.’ He stated, leaning towards him and slapping his shoulder affectionately.</p><p>‘Yeah?’ He asked, lightly. ‘Fuck, you’re drunk.'</p><p>‘Nah.’ Edward rebuked, resting his head in his shoulder. ‘If I was drunk I’d tell ya how we were worried you weren’t coming home at all.’ He stated. 'Mama used to get real tore up 'bout it. We used to go to the movies just to see the newsreels - the Nips looked hardcore.'</p><p>Eugene's stomach lurched and he sobered immediately as though ice water were poured over him. He stiffened in his seat, Okinawa suddenly ringing in his ears.</p><p>‘Eddie.’ Martha interjected, tightly. ‘I think you need some water.’</p><p>Despite his inebriated stupor, Edward recognised the stiff undertone of his wife’s voice and straightened in his seat obediently.</p><p>Eugene took a deep breath, attempting to force the screaming out of his ears.</p><p>‘How…’ He muttered, ignoring his brother's sentiment. ‘... in God’s name… did <em>you</em> lead a battalion?’</p><p>Edward grinned. ‘<em>Do your part!</em>’ He stated, mimicking the deep voice of the war slogan. ‘We did our part, Gene… and Aunt Eleanor is still an ice tea swillin' heathen who don't like Jews or Blacks or anyone other than that ugly ass daughter o'hers.’</p><p>‘When did Dotty get<em> so old</em>?' Eugene demanded, in a whisper. Purposely changing the topic of conversation. 'She's lookin' near forty!'</p><p>Edward clapped euphorically. 'You missed it - rumour has it, she got close with a sailor man, speculation she was in <em>the family way.' </em>He stated, with a knowing nod.</p><p>Eugene opened his mouth in delighted surprise. 'Now <em>that</em> would've been a scandal!' He surmised. 'Aunt Eleanor would have fallen down the knittin' circle hierarchy for sure!'</p><p>His brother pulled a face of disappointment. 'Nothin' transpired.' He shrugged. 'She's still reigning supreme.'</p><p>Edward glanced over his shoulder towards the door.</p><p>‘I don’t say this lightly.’ He stated, in an exaggerated whisper leaning towards his brother. ‘There are some people in life who deserved…’ He poked Eugene’s chest. ‘… to be in Hitler’s bunker and she's one of 'em.’</p><p>‘Edward!’ Martha admonished.</p><p>He glanced up, looking mildly startled at her outburst.</p><p>‘Bed!’ She snapped, objectionably, taking a final drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out in the ceramic dish. She grabbed him by the underside of his armpit, tugging him to his feet. 'Say goodnight to Eugene.'</p><p>'Goodnight to Eugene.' He chorused obediently, allowing himself to be dragged back inside the house, staggering as he went. </p><p>'Goodnight, Eugene!' Martha called. 'Make sure to stay hidden.'</p><p>He smiled after her, hiding the crippling isolation that suddenly washed over him as his two allies retired for the evening.</p><p>'Night.' He murmured. 'Sleep well.'</p><hr/><p>Eugene was knee-deep in mud as he rummaged through the sludge at the bottom of the foxhole.</p><p>He let out a desperate cry, sinking down to his elbows as he rummaged for some semblance of life beneath the slurry. He wretched against the sickening stench of bodily fluids, filth and death arising from the dense dirt beneath him.</p><p>He clawed on, regardless. He needed to find him. He needed to find him. HE NEEDED TO FUCKING FIND HIM!</p><p>‘Hang on!’ He screamed. ‘Hang on! I’m coming!’</p><p>A kick to the bottom of his sole aroused Eugene from his slumber with a shout.</p><p>
  <em>‘Snaf!’</em>
</p><p>The strangled cry was still ringing in Eugene's throat as he raised his head. His heart pounded against his chest as he blinked furiously. It took him a moment to acclimatise to his surroundings.</p><p>He was still on the porch, slumped against the back wall, still on his chair where he had finally fallen asleep. Edward was staring down at him with a terse expression on his face, a mug of coffee clutched in his grasp.</p><p>‘What you staring at me for?’ He demanded, instantly glancing down to the front of his trousers with a sickening clench of his stomach. Relief washed over him to see them dry. <em>Sleeping on the porch clearly helps,</em> he surmised thoughtfully, as he folded his arms over his chest in defence to his brother's scrutiny.</p><p>‘You were shoutin’ out.’ Edward responded, hesitantly. ‘What you doin’ out here?’</p><p>He stretched, cracking his aching neck. ‘I <em>was</em> tryin’ to sleep.’ He mumbled, irritably. ‘What you doin’ up?’</p><p>‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Edward answered, taking a swig of his coffee. ‘Why ain’t you in bed?’ He repeated.</p><p>Eugene shrugged, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Just fell asleep.’ He muttered as he lit one.</p><p>Edward stared at him, recognising his forced casualness a mile away. ‘Gene!’ He snapped, clearly losing patience. ‘<em>Why</em> ain’t you in bed?’</p><p>He sniffed, taking a long drag, before glancing to him. <em>There was never any point attempting to lie to his brother, he always saw right through him.</em></p><p>He rubbed his eye, distractedly. ‘I keep the house up.’ He stated. ‘Shoutin’…’ He shrugged. ‘We got guests.’</p><p>Edward blinked, his brow twitching. ‘You’re sleeping out here because you’re afraid you’ll wake those nasty bastards?’ He asked, jerking an objectionable thumb towards the slumbering house.</p><p>‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’ Eugene confessed. ‘Meant to wait up - promised Mother I would keep quiet.’</p><p>He watched his brother's face turn to stone as realisation washed over him. ‘<em>Mother</em> told you to sleep out here?’ He demanded, incredulously.</p><p>Eugene sighed, not wanting to cause any trouble. 'Not in as many words.’ He muttered. 'Don't make a fuss.' He urged, taking a drag. 'It's fine - I don't mind. Pay no mind.' He passed the pack across the table to his brother. 'Sit?' He insisted. 'Before the damn Addams' Family wake up.'</p><p>Edward licked his lip, before acquiescing, taking both the offered seat and cigarette.</p><p>'You look like shit.' He stated with a grin, desperate to deescalate the situation.</p><p>Edward smirked. 'Fuckin' feel it.' He muttered, taking a drag before glancing at his brother with a pained expression. ‘How you doin’?’ He asked. ‘We ain't talked much since you got home. Not about... <em>that.</em>’</p><p>‘I don’t want to.’ Eugene responded, defensively. Instantly he felt his chest constricting, bile rising in the back of his throat - as it always did when the subject turned to the war.</p><p>‘Neither do I.’ Edward rebuked, holding up a hand in submission. ‘Never want to think about it again, if truth told.’ He shrugged. ‘But sometimes talking helps.’</p><p>‘Maybe.’ Eugene shrugged, casting his gaze out over the early morning garden.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>‘Who’s Snaf?’ Edward asked.</p><p>Eugene's stomach bottomed out, instantly feeling violently ill. He attempted to swallow, every ounce of moisture instantly evaporating from his mouth. His hearing fell tinny for a moment as his skin flushed and his heart pounded.  He hadn't so much as uttered that name since his return, the sound of it made him sickeningly dizzy.</p><p>He absently scratched his head. ‘Huh?’ He asked, stumbling to buy just a few precious seconds to compose some sort of response.</p><p>Edward stared at him. ‘You was shoutin’ out.’ He responded. ‘Kept shouting it…'</p><p>'A friend.' He answered, simply, taking a stiff drag of his cigarette.</p><p>Edward grinned. 'Was he a Snafu?’ He pressed, clearly oblivious to his brother's inner turmoil. ‘Every company had a Snafu… we had one – Wilson, that fucker was a sandwich short of a picnic... hell, he was short of the damn hamper.’</p><p>Eugene swallowed. ‘He was my gunner.’ He stated, swallowing angrily against the lump in his throat.</p><p>He nodded. ‘Your buddy?’</p><p>‘Something like that.’ He muttered, needing the conversation to reach an abrupt end. ‘From Louisiana.’</p><p>‘He buy the farm?’</p><p>Eugene shook his head vehemently. ‘No!’ He answered, a little too forcefully.</p><p>Edward frowned at him.</p><p>‘He… he went home... I guess.’ He murmured, hoping the agony in the sentiment didn't come across to apparent.</p><p>His brother surveyed him with an odd look, as though he were pondering something. Yet on what, he didn't elaborate. ‘You should write him.’ He suggested.</p><p>‘Maybe.’ He breathed, knocking his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and taking a mouthful of the coffee before passing it back to Edward with an expression of disgust. ‘God it’s like water.’</p><p>Edward smiled. ‘Ain’t Joe and sidearms, is it?’</p><p>Eugene smirked. ‘No other way to start a morning… a Jawbreaker and a Joe bitter as sin.’</p><p>He huffed a laugh in response. 'How was it, Gene?' He murmured. 'Just between us.'</p><p>Eugene closed his eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Bill was screaming in the mud, Ack-Ack was carried through the trench, the baby exploded in front of his eyes, the old woman gazed back at him, Hamm lay dead at his feet, the train seat sat empty opposite him.</em>
</p><p>He cleared his throat, tightly. ‘Hell.’ He answered, stiffly. ‘You?’</p><p>Edward sniffed, flicking his ash off the end of his cigarette. ‘Not great.' He surmised. 'Nazis are <em>nasty bastards</em>... didn't reach any of the camps though, so we were the lucky ones... I guess...’</p><p>Eugene surveyed his cigarette for a moment. 'Was it true?' He asked, hesitantly. 'It ain't just for the newsreels?'</p><p>He nodded, slowly. 'It's true - every damn word... kids...' He cleared his throat. ''s'just what it is, ain't it?' He licked his bottom lip. '<em>War.' </em>He added, bitterly. </p><p>A silence descended, agonising for both of them.</p><p>Eugene sucked his teeth. ‘I got blown up.’ He murmured, changing the subject. His brother had always loved a gory injury - that would cheer him up.</p><p>Edward’s eyes flashed towards him.</p><p>‘Wanna see?’</p><p>He nodded emphatically. Grinning around his cigarette, Eugene lifted his foot onto the table, pulling his trouser leg up to his knee and lowering his sock. A deep four-inch scar glared angrily against his shin, the area stripped of all leg hair.</p><p>Edward whistled. ‘That’s a doozy!’ He stated, prodding at it with his finger.</p><p>'Got blown up over a creek.' He murmured, surveying it. ‘Got wood stuck in it, buddy o’mine had to yank it out. Nearly bled out on the trail.’</p><p>Edward whistled again, jabbing a nail against it. ‘Corpsman come for you?’</p><p>Eugene tutted, slapping his prying hand away and fingering it himself.</p><p>‘Eventually.’ He responded, before lowering his leg, furious with himself for such a lack of foresight that the conversation would circle back to this topic of conversation. ‘Sn… Snafu carried me most of the way back, don’t really remember, took a knock on the head.’ He lifted his fringe. 'See that scar?' He added, pointing to the centimetre long abrasion against his hairline. </p><p>Edward nodded, clearly impressed with his war wounds. ‘You were close with Snafu? Huh?’ He pressed, leaning back in his chair.</p><p>He sniffed, dropping his hair and clearing his throat, uncomfortably. ‘Yeah.’ He muttered. 'I was.'</p><p>‘I thought I could hear you two.’ A third voice interjected. Eugene had never been more grateful in his entire life to see his Father stepping out onto the veranda.</p><p>‘I’m going to get a shower before everyone wakes.’ He announced, stubbing out his cigarette and hastening inside before the conversation could progress. ‘Mornin', Pop.’ He added, as an afterthought as he walked passed.</p><p>He had barely made it into the house when he heard Edward's furious voice rang out.</p><p>‘Did you know he was sleepin' out here?’ He demanded, presuming him to be out of earshot. ‘Did she tell him to sleep out here?’</p><p>‘Good morning to you, too, Edward!' His Father objected, irritably. 'Of course, she didn't tell him to sleep out here!'</p><p>‘You’re a damn psychiatrist to veterans – what you doing telling him that he needs to be quiet so as to not upset the guests?!’</p><p>‘Your<em> Mother</em> said that and <em>I</em> told him to pay her no mind!’</p><p>‘Of course, he’ll pay her mind – you know what he’s like!’ Edward rebuked angrily. ‘Has he talked to you? What’s wrong with him? He ain’t himself at all.’</p><p>Eugene did not wish to listen any further and made immediately for the stairs without a second glance. </p><p>Beneath the stream of the shower, his brother’s words reverberated around his head.</p><p>
  <em>What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with him?</em>
</p><p>What was <em>wrong</em> with him?</p><p>No. What was <em>right</em> with him?</p><hr/><p>Whatever his Father and brother discussed in his absence was not mentioned again that morning.</p><p>As he sat along the extended dining table that lunchtime beside his brother and across from his Uncle, it was hard to believe anything had ever been discussed at all. Then again, that was his family. They never spoke about feelings.</p><p>‘So Eugene, how is it being home?’ Aunt Eleanor asked, over the hubbub of general conversation.</p><p>Eugene froze from pushing his Chicken Pot Pie around his plate. He never ate lunch, breakfast was hard enough to stomach.</p><p>He'd been on shaky ground since the relatives had awoken that morning. He hadn't realised just how exhausting he found large groups; after a full meal of polite chit-chat at breakfast, he simply had nothing left to offer. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry and the curdling of anxiety sat in his stomach. He didn't know how he would survive another twenty-four hours of this.</p><p>He opened his mouth to speak but found nothing came out.</p><p>‘Aw, when you get back it's like you was never away.’ Edward stated suddenly, clapping Eugene on the back as he answered for him. It was like they were boys again, Eugene, a cripplingly shy seven-year-old, assertive eleven-year-old, Edward easily speaking on his behalf.</p><p>‘How was Japan, Eugene?’ Uncle Derek added. 'We've heard all about your brother's time but we ain't heard nothing about yours.'</p><p>Eugene blanched, the strum of his increasing heartbeat seeming to reverberate around the room. His hands began to tremble at the prospect of such a discussion. His parents would be mortified if he had "an episode" as his Father called them, at the table. </p><p>‘I was stationed in China after.’ He responded, quietly. ‘<em>Peking</em>; not Japan. We... we never reached the mainland.’</p><p>‘Oh, your Mother said you were in Japan.’</p><p>‘You were briefly, <em>weren’t you, Eugene</em>?’ She stated, suddenly. He glanced up taking in the prompting expression she gave him, her best <em>don't embarrass me </em>eyes shining across him from behind her false smile. She had been obsessed about him fighting on the Japanese mainland since before he had even returned from China - almost like she was mortified at the fact her son hadn't been a war hero, like his brother. </p><p>‘No.’ Edward interjected before he had a chance to speak. ‘Mother must be mistaken; like he said, he was in China. China and the Pacific.’</p><p>Eugene nodded in agreement, having nothing further to say on the matter. He noticed Martha and his brother share a glance across the table.</p><p>‘I’ll tell you where’s lovely.’ Edward continued with a smile, as he deflected the conversation. ‘Prague.’ He stated. ‘Obviously, she’s seen better days but the architecture is <em>extraordinary</em>.’</p><p>Had his hands not been shaking so violently, Eugene would have smirked. <em>Edward would no more have recognised a city's architecture as he would have become tee-total. </em></p><p>‘I vacationed in Pilsen before the great war.’ Aunt Agatha stated, reaching for more vegetable.  '<em>Beautiful</em> city, beautiful people too.'</p><p>The conversation progressed.</p><p>‘So boys, come back with any souvenirs?’ Dotty asked, clearly enjoying the topic of war.</p><p><em>Trauma? </em>He wanted to suggest, yet kept his eyes firmly on his plate.</p><p>If he just kept breathing it would be fine. <em>Just keep breathing. </em>He surveyed his plate intently. Had his Mother always put celery in her Chicken Pie? <em>Just keep breathing.</em></p><p>‘Coupl’a flags each.’ Edward answered, besides him. ‘Pillaging's only in the pictures, Dotty.' He winked at her. 'I snatched a German Colt, though.’</p><p>
  <em>DIE, YOU JAP FUCK! FUCKIN' DIE!</em>
</p><p>‘What about you Eugene?’ She asked. ‘You get a Jap gun?’</p><p>He lifted his head, glancing at his cousin. He tried to shake his head, yet he instantly felt glued against his chair, unable to move. Then he was no longer sat at the dining table, yet was back beneath the blistering sun of Peleliu. </p><p>
  <em>Suddenly Bill was screaming in the dirt, writhing around as he clutched his eyes. He fumbled desperately for his gun, his hands stilled, numb with terror, as the Jap launched towards him shrieking, bayonetted aloft. He fired two bullets that exploded against his chest. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He fell to his knees, staring desperately into Eugene's eyes as blood began to pool at his mouth. He whimpered, uttering out a dejected 'Ha-ha... Ha-ha.'  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was laughing at him, even in death. The fucking psychopath.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Means Momma.' A Cajun would tell him later. 'Ha-ha - means Momma in Nip. They ask for their damn Mommas same as our boys do, seems they human after all.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A Cajun. His Cajun.</em>
</p><p>‘Eugene?’ He heard his Mother call and suddenly he was back. He glanced round to discover his family gazing at him expectantly.</p><p>His heart rate thundered and bile rose in his throat.</p><p>
  <em>Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha-ha.</em>
</p><p>He heard her chuckle, awkwardly. ‘Head in the clouds, this one.’ She stated.</p><p>Eugene flushed, mortified to glance down and see his hands shaking so hard that his cutlery was rattling against his plate. Every ounce of him was screaming out against impending danger. Bile clenched against his stomach, every ounce of his body was mottled with sweat.</p><p>‘E... excuse me.’ He stammered, shoving his chair back and staggering from his seat, almost knocking it over in his hurry to escape the room.</p><p>
  <em>Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha-ha.</em>
</p><p>He blindly stumbled through the door towards the kitchen. He needed to get out. He just needed air. He'd be fine if he got some air. He... <em>he was going to be sick.</em></p><p>Annie and Marie glanced up at his arrival. He muttered something incoherently, before attempting to reach the back door.</p><p>It was too late.</p><p>Vomit suddenly flew from his mouth. He lurched forward, managing to save the kitchen floor from the splatter as he caught some of it, the rest splattering down his front. He flew to the kitchen sink, directing himself over the porcelain as he heaved again. The contents of his stomach flying from his throat as he brought back the eggs and toast he had forced down that morning. </p><p>He gripped the edge of the counter, spitting into the bowl, tears running from his eyes. Bile burnt his throat, humiliating rolled from him. </p><p>‘Oh, Eugene!’ Annie cried behind him. ‘Oh my, you sick?’</p><p>He quivered, clutching the sink until his knuckles went white. Trapped like a rabbit in the headlights, he trembled, his knees threatening to give beneath him.</p><p>‘I’m... I'm sorry…’ He stammered, desperately wiping his eyes as he reached for the faucet as he began to run the water over the mess. As he tried to salvage some semblance of his dignity. As he tried to battle against the fog that was shrouding him. ‘I’m sorry.’</p><p>The door clicked behind him, yet he barely had the energy to glance up.</p><p>‘He had a bit too much to drink last night and I don’t think breakfast agreed with him, did it, Genie Boy?’ His brother interjected, jovially.</p><p>A hand was on his back. Edward reached for the faucet, flushing water around to bowl to expertly clear the rest as he alleviated Annie’s worries. He poured dish soap over Eugene's hands and arms and he scrubbed the vomit away.</p><p>In less than a minute, Eugene found himself stripped of his soiled shirt. Annie shoving a cleanly laundered one into his hands with an affectionate tut at his seemingly childish antics as Edward carted him out the back door.</p><p>Edward was always excellent at that – <em>fixing things.</em></p><p>They didn’t settle on the veranda this time. Instead, they climbed over the back fence to the edge of the creek where they had played as boys. </p><p>‘Martha’ll be missin’ you.’ Eugene murmured absently around his cigarette.</p><p>‘Martha can hold her own.’ Edward assured him as he helped him with the last few buttons of his new shirt, his own hands having been too unsteady to finish them.</p><p>He settled beside him on the grass as a painful silence lingered between them for a moment.</p><p>'What was that about?' He asked, pulling his own cigarettes from his pocket.</p><p>Eugene lowered his gaze, picking at the fabric of his trousers. ‘It’s like I’m still there.’ He stated shamefully, gazing at his knees. ‘Someone says something or does something… and… I’m back... I'm wide awake but I'm not here anymore.’</p><p>‘That happens to me too, sometimes.’ Edward murmured. ‘Happened a week ago. Guy at work… did a stupid German accents and said <em>das is good ya</em>?’ He clicked. ‘I’m back in the Bulge crawlin' over the top of a Kraut bunker with a grenade in my hand.’ He reached over for his brother's knee and squeezed it. ‘Gene, this is <em>normal</em>.’ He stated. ‘How many lunatics of Father’s we met over the years?’ He asked. ‘You goin’ round beatin’ on folk? Disappearin’ for months on end? Wanderin' round town buck ass naked with a gun? Are ya?’</p><p>Eugene shook his head.</p><p>'So you aren't even the worst guy Father has treated - let alone the worst we ever heard of.' He sighed a long breath before glancing at him. ‘Gene, you’ve been back <em>not four months</em> - you’re lookin’ round at guys who’ve been back a year or more and you can’t compare it.’ He took a drag of his cigarette. ‘It was nearly Christmas before I could sleep through the night… used to keep a gun in the nightstand and bolt the door... everyone's <em>got something</em>.’</p><p>‘I sleep under my desk.’ Eugene confessed, quietly. His skin mottling with mortification at the admission.</p><p>Edward blinked.</p><p>‘I don’t like the bed.’ He added, with a self-deprecating laugh. Instantly, he regretted the admission. Edward wouldn't understand. <em>Why the fuck did he just say that?! </em>His own Psychiatrist Father with thirty years experience thought he was a fucking head case. His brother would too.</p><p>He sniffed beside him. ‘Takes getting used to, don’t it?’ He murmured, in agreeance. 'Too soft at first.'</p><p>Eugene glanced at him. <em>Or not</em>.</p><p>Edward leant back on his elbows, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. 'You can put wood under the mattress... gets rid of the give… it’s an in-between if ya like.’ </p><p>He nodded, mutely. ‘I’ll try it.’ He lied. He glanced at him, taking in the sight of his brother lounging in the sunlight. His stomach ached with a jealous incredulity. He looked like he'd never even been to war, let alone been a damn Luitenant in one. Eugene envied him.</p><p>‘You tried writin…?’ Edward began, but he cut him off.</p><p>‘Yeah.’ He answered. ‘Father’s answer to everything… tried it, don’t work.’</p><p>‘How’d’you know?’ Edward prompted. 'I know you, you ain't never been one to stick at something.'</p><p>‘It <em>don't</em> work.’ He repeated, firmly.</p><p>Edward raised his eyebrows. ‘Not even a bit?’</p><p>‘I said <em>no!</em>’ Eugene snapped, angrily. <em>Why did no one ever fucking listen to him?!</em></p><p>‘Okay.’ He held up his hands in acquiescence. ‘What about them sleepin' tablets? The ones Pop got? He gave me some - they knock me out like a light.’</p><p>‘Can’t take ‘em.’ Eugene whispered, stiffly, wrenching out tufts of grass from the ground beside him. </p><p>‘Why not?’</p><p>He swallowed, struggling to find the correct way to articulate his feelings. ‘I get stuck.’ He surmised, dropping the blades into a pile beside him. ‘I die and I’m stuck. Or… I’m... watching them die and I can’t get out.’</p><p>Edward fell silent. ‘Gene, have you thought about goin' to see…’</p><p>Panic rose in him at the prospect and instantly, his temper erupted. 'I don’t wanna talk to any fuckin' friend of Dad’s!’ He barked, his lip snarling. Guilt instantly washed over him as he watched his brother wince in surprise.</p><p>He was doing this more and more often - snap first, regret later...<em> just like... </em>He took a deep breath.</p><p>'I'm sorry...' He trailed off, shamefully gazing at the floor as he flushed with embarrassment at his outburst. 'It's just all Mother and Father suggest <em>talkin' to a professional</em> - I can't talk to a professional... they don't... they won't... <em>get it.'</em></p><p>Edward nodded. ‘You can talk to me.’ He suggested, after a moment. ‘I <em>get it</em>.’ He stated. ‘<em>They don’t</em>; just fuckin’ quacks in an office… but<em> I do</em>.’</p><p>‘It’s the smell.’ Eugene confessed, after a moment. ‘Used to be the screamin’ but I’m used to that now. It’s the smell.’</p><p>
  <em>All I can fucking smell all the time is him.</em>
</p><p>‘The burning?’ Edward asked.</p><p>He nodded. That was secondary, he guessed.</p><p>‘Get a nip of perfume.’ Edward prompted, holding out his arm. ‘Put it on the edge of your thumb.’ He pointed along the back of his knuckle. ‘Right there… every time it gets too much, make out like your scratchin’ your nose with the back of your thumb…' He demonstrated wiping his nose. 'Then you smell the perfume not the burnin'... sounds stupid but <em>it helps</em>.’</p><p>Eugene nodded. ‘I wouldn't've thought of that.’ He stated.</p><p>‘No?’ Edward asked. ‘Well I've always been smarter than you.’ He grinned, slapping him on the back.</p><p>Eugene smiled weakly. He'd missed this, the comradery and the support. He felt so terribly isolated at his parents' house. It was nice just to have somebody to talk to; somebody who would listen to him without judgement. Just someone who at least <em>tried </em>to understand.</p><p>‘I piss the bed.’ He murmured quietly, before he’d even had the chance to process the statement. He gasped a horrified breath, not daring to look at him. 'I piss the bed. <em>Every. Fucking. Night</em>.’ He lowered his head into his hands, hiding his face from his brother’s view.</p><p>As he focussed on the patterns beneath his eyelids, he felt his brother shuffle closer towards him, sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.</p><p>Edward breathed a sigh. ‘I could lie to you and say that’s normal.’ He responded. ‘But we don’t lie to each other, do we, Gene?’</p><p>Eugene remained silent.</p><p>‘How many guys you know who died?’ He asked.</p><p>Eugene shrugged.</p><p>‘Fifty? Sixty?’</p><p>He scoffed, dryly. ‘Fuck me, Ed, what war d’you fight in?’ He asked, raising his head to look at him.</p><p>‘One a lot better than yours by the sound of it.’ Edward responded honestly. ‘So how many?’</p><p>Eugene let out a huff. ‘I couldn't count.' He answered, truthfully.</p><p>'Try.'</p><p>'Hundreds.' He surmised, taking a drag. 'Two? Three? Four hundred?'</p><p>Edward nodded. ‘And how many of those four hundred would think pissin’ the bed’s a better fate than the one they got?’</p><p>Eugene smirked. ‘Jesus, Army ain’t nothin’ like the Marines.’ He stated, dryly. ‘You a load’a fairy boys.’</p><p>‘Probably are.’ Edward agreed, with a smirk. ‘But ain’t no good come of a dead man. Be 'em fairy boys or naw.’</p><p>‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this.’ Eugene whispered. ‘Everything was supposed to get better.’</p><p>
  <em>We were going to start a new life. We were going to be happy. He was supposed to keep me safe. I was never supposed to be alone, anymore.</em>
</p><p>Edward nodded. ‘Can’t argue there.’ He agreed. ‘But if it’s any consolation; as tired as you are of hearing about it – it gets easier.’</p><p>Eugene lowered his gaze. He so desperately hoped so.</p><hr/><p>Sitting beneath the Oak Tree by the lower field as afternoon stretched into evening, Eugene consulted his ornithology book. He squinted scrupulously at the small red-headed bird digging in the dirt for a worm. Since the melee at dinner time, he had successfully avoided his visiting family members, for the most part. </p><p>It had taken a significant amount of insistence that he did not wish to join his Father, brother and Uncles on their hunting expedition and even more insistence that he did not want to take tea with his Mother's and Aunt's. </p><p>He only wanted to sit. To spend time alone. </p><p>'What you doin'?' </p><p>Eugene jumped slightly, his tranquillity broken. He glanced behind him. Martha was approaching, her crocheting clasped in one hand.</p><p>He took a deep breath. 'I am trying to work out what <em>that</em> is.' He responded, pointing towards the bird. 'It's either a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker or a Red-bellied Woodpecker.' </p><p>She squinted at the animal as it flapped its wings irately at its lack of prey. 'He's pretty.' She stated.</p><p>Eugene smiled. 'Yeah, he is.' He agreed. 'He been hangin' around for weeks and I ain't been able to figure it out. It has real unusual markings - see the head?' He pointed. 'The vibrancy of the red makes me think it's a Yella-Belly but it's missin' the black strip along his eyes.' He gestured to the picture in his book. 'But.' He flicked forward a few pages and settled on a second image. 'Those markings on his back say Red-Belly - so he's one on his own this guy.'</p><p>She huffed a laugh. 'God, you ain't anythin' like Eddie.' She stated, affectionately.</p><p>'No.' He agreed. 'I guess I ain't.' He closed his book, reaching for his cigarettes as he settled against the tree.</p><p>‘You didn't fancy going hunting?’ Martha asked.</p><p>Eugene shook his head. ‘It ain’t my game anymore.’ He answered. ‘Had enough of guns to last me a lifetime.’</p><p>She smiled, understandingly. 'I imagine.' She stated. 'Eddie said you're goin' to college in the fall?' She laid her crochet into the grass. 'With the GI Bill?'</p><p>Eugene smirked. 'They say I should.' He responded, glancing over at the bird. 'Tried to...' He laughed, lightly. 'Didn't go so well.'</p><p>'Yeah... I heard about that too.' She paused. 'What do you <em>want</em> to do?' She asked. 'If you could do anything at college?'</p><p>Eugene shrugged. 'I dunno.' He answered. He waved the book. <em>'This,</em> probably... but Mother wouldn't approve. She wants me to do Medicine, something I'd have a career in.'</p><p>'You don't wanna do medicine?' She asked.</p><p>He shook his head, fiercely. 'Couldn't think of anything worse.' He confessed. 'My... my buddy Sid, he's in his second year out in Reid State... he lives there with his wife.' He paused. 'He's got the personality of a doctor... he's patient -<em> I ain't</em>.'</p><p>'I reckon you could be anything.' She stated, encouragingly. 'But only what <em>you</em> wanna be.'</p><p>He smiled, appreciatively. </p><p>'What did you think about bein' when you got home?' She prompted. </p><p>He scoffed. 'Alive.' He stated, with a grin.</p><p>She clicked her tongue and swatted him on the shoulder. 'No, actually you're more like Eddie than you seem.' She rebuked. 'Same damn sense of humour.'</p><p>He huffed a light laugh. 'It wasn't... really... the place to think.' He stated. 'I didn't... think much.'</p><p>
  <em>'I'll take care of you, Gene. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.' </em>
</p><p>He blinked, stiffly. </p><p>'I'd compromise and do science, I think.' He surmised, quietly. 'I like science... this... is Ornithology but... I'd do Biology, maybe.'</p><p>'Think about it.' She suggested, placing a hand on his shoulder. 'But don't be bullied into anything.'</p><p>'I will.' He assured her.</p><p>'I hate to break up your bird party.' She stated, pulling a face. 'But your Mother sent me out to get you - they're due back from the hunt anytime, she says it's time to wash up... people'll be arrivin' soon.' </p><p>He pulled a face. 'Joyous.' He responded, climbing to his feet. 'Let the fun commence.'</p><hr/><p>The same families had been attending his parents’ fourth of July party for as long as Eugene could remember.</p><p>The same extended family members would come to stay for the weekend.</p><p>The same family friends would visit from town.</p><p>The same families from the street would be invited, not the Aldens after their falling out, though.</p><p>The same friends of his brothers would descend.</p><p>The same food would be served.</p><p>The same fireworks would be shown.</p><p>The same crockery would be brought out by his Mother.</p><p>The same terrible speech would be given by his Father.</p><p>Everything had been so very monotonous, almost to a point that he could predict the next sentence someone would say to him. The next debacle that was about to occur.</p><p>He usually thrived on monotony; found it comforting. With monotony, Eugene knew exactly what to expect and he could tailor his actions accordingly.</p><p>Yet tonight, something was amiss.</p><p>From the moment he donned the fresh shirt that his Mother had newly purchased for him, he felt uncomfortable in his own skin. He hadn't been in a crowd this big since returning home.</p><p>What had been friends, family and neighbours - <em>allies - </em>before the war now felt as threatening to him as any Banzai attack.</p><p>The hubbub of chatter resembled the distant din of gunfire, the joyous laughter of the room echoed the shriek of a Japanese warcry, the pleasant early summer air was as stifling as the oppressive humidity of Peleliu, the smoke of his usually stabilising cigarettes burnt like the ignitions of his mortar shells.</p><p>There was an unspoken alliance that Edward seemed to understand, despite the fact that Eugene had not aired any inclination to his ails. He spoke for him; deflecting family members and unwanted questions - <em>spent the evening looking after him.</em></p><p>He sat firmly on his wicker chair on the corner of the veranda, tucked safely against the back wall with his back shielded from any chance of unexpected attack. Whatever danger the night may have posed; Eugene had been sure he was ready for it.</p><p>He had tried to stay out of everybody's way. He had tried so damn hard.</p><p>As he had overheard his Mother telling his Father several days before his family's arrival <em>there’s no need to let anyone know about Eugene’s sensibilities.</em></p><p>
  <em>The boy’s idle; he’s moping around like the world’s ended and it’s getting tiresome.</em>
</p><p>He so desperately hadn't wanted to embarrass her or to make a spectacle of himself. He didn't want to be like <em>this.</em></p><p>He wanted to relax and catch up with his friends and family. He wanted to be normal.</p><p>He wanted to be anything other than the quivering wreck he had been reduced to.</p><p>He had so nearly managed it.</p><p>He'd done exceptionally well all night, if he said so himself. He'd cried alone in the bathroom twice, but no one had known. He'd also brought up Annie's special Ambrosia Salad in the shadows of the back hedge, yet he had gotten a large helping down in the first place.</p><p>It had been going swimmingly until the fireworks started.</p><p>'Get ready for the feu d'artifice l'escouade!' His cousin had shouted loudly.</p><p>Something within Eugene had jarred. <em>Fuck Ernie and his fucking French. </em></p><p>
  <em>He let out an agonised yelp as the first firework exploded outside the window. </em>
</p><p>Eugene paced along the back lawns, a mostly unpopulated area, as he attempted to quell the screaming in his own ears. His skin was balmy, his heart thundered, he wanted to run upstairs and cower beneath his desk. Yet he couldn't; because he would embarrass his Mother.</p><p>'Gene, do you want some punch?' </p><p>He turned, Martha stood before him, holding out a glass to him. He gaped at the sight of her.</p><p>
  <em>'Breathe for me, Sledgehammer. It's just ol' Chinaman lettin' his hair down for new years.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Light eyes gazed down at him affectionately, swimming with an untold fear and concern. His strong hands reached towards him, uncurling the grip he held over his own head, cowering against the edge of the rack as the second firework erupted.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Cher, 's'just fireworks.' He urged, embracing him tightly against the onslaught of explosions. 'It's OK, Gene. I've got ya. I'm right here, ain't gonna let anything happen to ya.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He gasped painfully against the growing agony in his chest; it felt too much. Like he was suffocating.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'You can cry.' He assured him, softly, in a manner so unlike himself. 'I ain't gonna think no less of you.' He threaded his fingers through his mussed hair. 'Nothin' could make me think less of you.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With Merriell's permission, he wept.</em>
</p><p>'Are you alright?' She asked, gazing at him with an alarmed expression.</p><p>His head pounded, his vision blurred. He watched her as he stared at him.</p><p><em>'You're frightening her!' </em>A voice snapped angrily at him. '<em>Stop frightening her!'</em></p><p>'Gene, what's the matter?' She repeated, glancing over her shoulder clearly in search of Edward.</p><p>Eugene was suddenly aware of the fact he couldn't breathe. His air sat caught somewhere between his lungs, replaced by the same devastating crushing of terror.</p><p><em>'You're scarin' her, terrible.'</em> <em>Merriell's voice hissed, running a hand against his hair. </em></p><p>He flinched away from the touch and Martha closed the distance between them, pressing a hand on his forearm. </p><p>'I'm here.' She assured him, quietly. </p><p>
  <em>'See, she's gonna look after you.' Merriell continued, pressing his hand back to the nape of his neck, his breath heavy against Eugene's ear. 'Don't be afraid of nothin', you got so many people to care on ya, y'don't need me.'</em>
</p><p>'I need you.' He stated, to the voice at his ear.</p><p>'I ain't gonna go anywhere.' Martha stated, gripping his arm tightly.</p><p>He'd said that aloud, <em>shit. </em></p><p>
  <em>'Why ain't you lettin' go of me, Sledge?' </em>
</p><p>It was hot. So very hot. </p><p>'I ain't ever gonna let go of you.' He stated, his knees going heavy beneath him. The dewy grass suddenly at his fingertips, as he remained distantly aware of the fact Martha had followed him to the floor.</p><p>
  <em>'Then you in for a damn long life, Gene.' </em>
</p><p>'I'd do anything.' He mumbled, his breath catching in his throat. </p><p>'You're not talking to me.' Martha murmured, with a horrified realisation. 'Eugene, can you hear me?' </p><p>
  <em>''The fuck are you doing, you idiot?!' Burgie's voice screeched, ripping his lighter from his grasp. 'You, stupid shit! You'll get us spotted! If the Japs spot us, it'll be your fucking fault.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It'll be your fucking fault. It'll be your fucking fault. Your fucking fault. Your fucking fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bill screamed as he writhed in the dirt. Merriell screamed out, petrified, as he flailed in the darkness at shadows. The scream of his own name echoed in his ears as he flew through the air with a sickening explosion, his body contorting in pain. He screamed Merriell's name as he cowered over the grenade.</em>
</p><p>The first explosion of the firework detonated across the sky. </p><p>
  <em>'SHORT ROUND! SHORT ROUND! SHORT ROUND!' Merriell's voice cracked as he screamed out into the night, hurling himself to the top of the foxhole to give their comrades adequate warning.</em>
</p><p>'SHORT ROUND!' Eugene screamed, suddenly up to his waist in mud. </p><p>
  <em>It'll be your fucking fault. It'll be your fucking fault. Your fucking fault. Your fucking fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.</em>
</p><p>A second explosion. Martha was here, fuck. </p><p>'GET DOWN!' </p><p>She didn't understand warfare, she wasn't supposed to be here. Edward would be heartbroken that she had come to see him.</p><p>He could protect her. He could protect her. </p><p>
  <em>It'll be your fucking fault. It'll be your fucking fault. Your fucking fault. Your fucking fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.</em>
</p><p>A third explosion.</p><p>'NO!' He was winded with the force he tackled them to the ground, mud splattering against them as they fell to the base of the foxhole. He'd look after her, it would be OK. It would be over in a second. </p><p>A fourth explosion.</p><p>'Just count 'em!' He shouted over the din. 'Just count 'em. Each one's a fuck you, TOJO! <em>FUCK YOU!</em>' </p><p>Beneath him, Martha screamed.</p><hr/><p>If Eugene hadn't been so petrified of his own shortfallings that night, perhaps he would have noticed not just his own fragility, but that of each and every serviceman who was in attendance that evening.</p><p>From his cousin, Dougie, to the Miller boys from up the street and all the way down the line to his own brother.</p><p>In fact, when the fireworks had first gone off, Edward had been cowering in the kitchen. Having taken not ten minutes for himself after spending the evening resuming his own facade of normality. He shook as he reached for the decanter of whiskey that he had secreted in Annie's spice box.</p><p>He flinched, ducking down against the pantry wall, instinctively covering his head against the enemy gunfire as he quivered in his childhood home, overcome by the claustrophobia of his tank.</p><p>It was Martha’s shrill cry breaking through the explosions that had Edward suddenly ripped back to reality. He dropped the decanter to the floor, hurrying to the backdoor just in time for Danny Martins, the son of his Father's colleague, to come haring towards him. </p><p>‘Eddie, your brother’s beatin’ on your wife!’ He cried, gesturing to a crowd of a dozen or so of their nearest and dearest huddled on the lawn.</p><p>He sprinted, a sickening feeling in his stomach. He flinched as another firework exploded, reaching the lawn in time for his Father and cousin to be jostling over Eugene and Martha.</p><p>‘The fuck is going on?’ He demanded, shoving Ernie backwards.</p><p>‘It’s fine!’ Martha cried, half obstructed from view beneath Eugene's body block. She held a hand out against Edward, clearly fearful of the fact he would attempt to strike his brother.</p><p>‘He hit her!’ Ernie interjected, accusatorily pointing his finger at Eugene.</p><p>‘He’s not hit me!' She shrilled, her voice almost hysterical. 'Everyone <em>stop</em> saying he’s hit me.’ She spat angrily. ‘He’s having a turn but he’s fine.’</p><p>Edward blanched, realising what the scene in front of him was. Eugene half sprawled across his wife, her wrist clutched firmly in his grasp as he pinned her to the ground, one hand slung over his head as he cowered on the lawn, rocking, mumbling desperately beneath his breath.</p><p>He sank down to his knees beside his brother and his wife. ‘You OK?’ He asked, gently.</p><p>She nodded, looking petrified. ‘Is <em>he</em> alright?' She asked.</p><p>'He's fine.' Edward responded, sounding far calmer than he felt as he reached for Eugene's hand, peeling his fingers from Martha's wrist and pulling him away, freeing her from his grasp.</p><p>She crawled out from beneath him. 'He launched at me full pelt when the fireworks went off.' She gasped, rubbing her wrist. ‘Started screaming to get down.’</p><p>‘OK.’ He urged, trying to reach for his brother calmly. Suddenly, Eugene let out a low wail, slamming his hands over the top of his head, his fingers pressing into his ears. He contorted his body; his face pressing against his knees as he mumbled desperately. </p><p>Edward glanced up to see the crowd, including their Father, staring at him horror stricken.</p><p>‘Father, get everyone off the lawn, he ain’t a spectacle.’ He hissed, furiously.<em> ‘Now!’</em></p><p>‘Why don’t we go through to the parlour?’ Martha’s shaking voice cried. ‘Dr. Sledge? Let’s come along now. Ernie, help me!’</p><p>He glanced up, seeing his wife and cousin beginning to usher the group away.</p><p>He lowered himself down to Eugene’s level.</p><p>‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.’ He was counting in a desperate mumble beneath his breath, trembling and shaking.</p><p>‘Gene.’ Edward urged, softly. ‘Eugene, it’s alright, bud… just fireworks.’</p><p>‘Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.’</p><p>Another firework cracked through the air and Eugene winced, letting out a cry. Edward reached for him, pulling him against him tightly as he attempted to shield him from the fireworks.</p><p>‘ERNIE, FUCKING GO AND TELL THEM TO STOP!’ He shouted over his shoulder. He pressed his head into the fabric of his shirt, hoping to soften the noise against the fabric. He glanced around to see Ernie sprinting towards the front lawn where his Mother was holding host with a bulk of the house guests and the answerable box of fireworks.</p><p>‘Eugene, they’re just fireworks!’ He tried, desperately, bile rising in his throat as he watched his little brother tremble beneath him. <em>Fuck this fucking war.</em></p><p>‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.’</p><p>‘Why you countin’? What you countin’?’ Edward’s voice was soft, as he lowered his face towards him. ‘Gene?’</p><p>His eyes were screwed shut, he shook his head, muttering desperately.</p><p>That was when Edward realised; he wasn’t there. He was locked one of the dark corners of his mind, a corner that mercifully Edward only visited in his sleep. Eugene was not that lucky. </p><p>‘You’re home.’ He assured him, rubbing his back. ‘You’re safe. You’re home.’</p><p>‘Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.’</p><p>He had seen enough men crack to know what a break from reality looked like. He had hoped never to see one again. Would have done anything to swap their positions at that moment. It crippled him to see his brother suffering so.</p><p>Edward gasped a breath, his stomach clenching at the position he was about to adopt. ‘Sledge, look at me.’ He ordered, his voice lowering several octaves as he appropriated the firm voice he had held over his men. A voice that had no place back on civilian ground and certainly no place being addressed towards his little brother. ‘Look at me, Sledge - that’s a <em>damn order.</em>’</p><p>Eugene’s eyes cracked, allowing himself to accept the words above him. They fit into his current scenario; a military man answered orders from a superior.</p><p>Edward would be his superior.</p><p>‘Look at me.’ He repeated. ‘Who am I? Tell me who I am.’</p><p>Eugene gasped, staring up at him, as though he were a stranger. ‘Eddie.' He cried, after a moment.</p><p>He nodded, smiling encouragingly at him. Yet he uttered a choked cry, in response.</p><p>'Need to get the mortar.’ He breathed. ‘Eddie, we need to get the mortar… sh... sh... sh...' He struggled against the word, grappling desperately at his brother's front until suddenly finding his voice. 'SHORT ROUND!' He screamed, against his face.</p><p>The ferocity of his exclamation and the strength with which he truly believed it drew tears to Edward's eyes. He tried to speak, the words stuck in his mouth as he watched Eugene lash out against his hold.</p><p>'Where's Snaf? Get Snaf - you don't know how to load the mortar! THEY'RE COMING! WHERE THE FUCK IS BURGIE? GET THE FUCKING MORTAR! THERE'S NO TIME! WE AIN'T GOT TIME!'</p><p>'HEY!' Edward reprimanded, suddenly finding his voice. He shook him fiercely. Eugene lurched, as though the action roused something in him. He repeated the action, jostling him violently. 'We'll get the mortar in a minute!' He urged, his voice far softer than his actions. ‘But we’re at <em>home</em>, aren’t we?’ He repeated.</p><p>Eugene gaped at him, dark eyes wide, his mouth agape in sheer hysterical confusion. ‘Home.’ He repeated shakily, the words alien against his ragged breath.</p><p>‘It’s Eddie. <em>I'm Eddie</em>.’ Edward stated. ‘You<em> know</em> I'm Eddie, where else would I be? I ain't at war with ya, am I?’</p><p>Eugene whimpered and Edward reached for his face, holding his gaze towards him.</p><p>‘They’re fireworks, aren’t they? Aren’t they Corporal? <em>Say it</em>.’</p><p>‘F… fireworks.’ Eugene stuttered, tears falling hot and heavy against his brother’s fingertips. ‘Why… no…. they… <em>Martha...</em>’</p><p>‘Look, we’re in the back yard.’ Edward breathed, pulling him to his chest in a protective embrace. ‘We’re at home.’</p><p>Slowly, Eugene braved a glance, wincing for fear of any misfire. ‘Home?’ He repeated.</p><p>‘We’re home.’ Edward assured him. ‘Nothin’ to be afraid of – listen - the fireworks have stopped... nothin' to be afraid of... we're right at home. We're together, aren't we?'</p><p>As quickly as he had lost his reality, Eugene returned to himself. Letting out a staggered breath of realisation, scrambling away from his brother's embrace. He mewled like a wounded animal, pressing his face into his hands as realisation sunk into him. He let out an anguished sob of confusion and humiliation.</p><p>'You're home.' Edward repeated, shakily, for want of anything better to say.</p><p>Eugene shook his head furiously, pounding a fist against the ground.</p><p>‘I ain’t <em>ever</em> goin’ to be home.’ He choked desperately, sounding more distraught that Edward had ever heard a man be.</p><p>Suddenly, his own tears began to fall as he reached for him again. Grateful, this time, that he did not bat him away. He urged him gently, holding him as he wept.  </p><p>'I'll get you home.' Edward hissed fiercely, his own voice breaking with emotion as tears clouded his vision. 'I swear I'll get you home, Gene. I'll get you home.'</p><p>-</p><p>Eugene turned his fresh packet of Camel cigarettes over and over against the knee of his brown corduroy trousers, purposely keeping his gaze averted from the middle-aged man before him. He cast a tertiary glance towards the closed office door, mindful his brother and Father were waiting for him on the other side.</p><p>‘You can smoke, if you like?’</p><p>He nodded in silent gratitude, looking back at his knees as he lifted a cigarette from the pack and placed one into his mouth. A lighter chinked before him, causing him to glance up.</p><p>Dr Simms held a silver lighter out to him, its flame engorged. Eugene accepted the ignition, gratefully.</p><p>'When were you shipped out?' The doctor asked, casually. As though he were asking the time of the next bus.</p><p>Eugene swallowed, taking a drag as his hands shook.</p><p>‘For the Marines or for the Pacific?’ He asked, stiffly.</p><p>‘Either.’ Came the easy reply. ‘Both?’</p><p>‘Is this not in the file my Father sent over?’ He asked unsteadily, returning his gaze back to his trousers. He watched as his leg jostled erratically. </p><p>‘There’s lots in the file your Father sent.’ Dr Simms answered. ‘Not that I’ve read its contents.’</p><p>Eugene frowned, glancing up at him.</p><p>‘I’m here to talk to <em>you</em>, Eugene.’ He stated. ‘I don’t want your Father’s medical opinion on you.’ He reached into his pocket, pulling out his own packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘I want to hear about <em>your</em> experiences; from <em>you.</em>’</p><p>Eugene swallowed, taking another drag.</p><p>‘I left for Boot Camp – Pendleton; just after Christmas – December 43.’ He sniffed. ‘Shipped out Summer 44.’</p><p>‘Pendleton?’ Dr Simms asked. ‘Marines?’</p><p>Eugene nodded, forcing a smirk. ‘You wanna know the battalion, too?’</p><p>Dr Simms, took a deep inhale. ‘If you want to tell me.’ He stated.</p><p>‘You really not read his file?’ He asked, hesitantly.</p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>‘Not a word.’ He responded. ‘Just the covering letter – your name and the fact he thinks you have excessive battle fatigue… but I’ll assess that for myself.’</p><p>‘K/3/5 First Marines.’ Eugene murmured. 'I was in the Mortar Squad.'</p><p>‘An honourable Corps.’ The Doctor remarked. 'A privilege to serve.'</p><p><em>This was a waste of fucking time. </em>Eugene glanced towards the door. He was half a second from climbing to his feet and walking right out. He'd promised to give it a proper try and he'd tried it.</p><p>‘So everyone says.’ Dr Simms continued. ‘I’m sure the boys who actually serve within her ranks beg to differ.’</p><p>He blinked, frowning. <em>Had he heard that right?</em></p><p>He cocked his head to one side as he surveyed him. ‘What’s your opinion?’</p><p>Eugene took an inhale of his cigarette. ‘On what?’ He asked, hesitantly.</p><p>‘The Marines?’</p><p>He opened his mouth to speak, the words drying up. No one had ever asked him that question. ‘It…’ He trailed off. ‘It wasn’t what I thought.’ He concluded.</p><p>‘No?’ Dr Simms asked. ‘What did you think it would be?’</p><p>Eugene shrugged. ‘Not what it was.’ He answered, dismissively.</p><p>‘Let’s go back to your mind frame, December 1942.’ He proposed. ‘What headspace were you in?’ He asked. ‘How did you feel about joining?’</p><p>‘I…’ He took several steadying drags to calm his nerves. ‘I was excited... I guess.’ He surmised. ‘I… I had a heart murmur.’ He stated. ‘My Father said I couldn’t join up; but the murmur had rectified itself so I signed up… I felt I was gonna miss the war… so I couldn’t wait to get there.’</p><p>‘How long did that excitement last?’ Dr Simms pressed.</p><p>Eugene glanced down at the cherry of his cigarette. ‘til we shipped out, I suppose.’ He murmured.</p><p>
  <em>The exact moment of Merriell opening his mouth, vomit pooling to the floor, had been the instant his excitement had dissipated completely.</em>
</p><p>‘Where did you ship out to?’</p><p>‘Peleliu.’ He answered, quietly.</p><p>Dr. Simms nodded. ‘And how would you describe Peleliu?’ He asked.</p><p>Eugene licked his lip. ‘Hell.’ He answered, quietly, sickness rising in his stomach. ‘Peleliu was hell...' He trailed off, lowering his gaze back to his knees. '... but what came after was worse.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading!</p><p>I would love to know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for all of the ongoing support and for being so patient for the update.</p><p>Eugene's having a shitter, let's make it worse...</p><p>T/W: References to PTSD, descriptions of war and homophobic language and attitudes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Mobile: October, 1947</span>
</p><p>Eugene stepped down from the Greyhound. With a cheerful thanks to the driver, he met the baggage man on the sidewalk, quickly claiming the suitcase from him before making in the direction of the awaiting truck down the street.</p><p>'We're makin' a habit of this, huh?' His driver greeted, leaning up from the bonnet to pull him into a tight hug.</p><p>'You ever thought of takin' up chaufferin' on the side, Dr Phillips?' He responded, slapping his best friend on the back, jovially.</p><p>Sid grinned. 'Ass.' He muttered. 'Get in.'</p><p>Eugene gave a tip of an imaginary hat as he tossed his luggage into the flatbed of the truck. 'Your new car makes you look like your Pop.' </p><p>Sid laughed, giving him a shove as he climbed back into the driver's side. 'It has excellent miles to the gallon. Are you wearin' Wranglers? Y'damn hillbilly?'</p><p>'I'm very college chic, won't ya know?' He responded, with a laugh. He paused before climbing into the car, grinning as he took in a lungful of the early evening Mobile air.</p><p>
  <em>It was good to be home.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Eugene didn't like to think of how many favours his Father must have called in, nor how much money had undoubtedly crossed hands, for him to have been able to start the college mid-way through the previous year's Fall semester. When his mental health was finally beginning to improve, his nightmares were lessening and he was growing dryer with each night that passed. </p><p>His Father and brother had dropped him off a week before November, settling him into his dorm room in a private house off-campus.</p><p>The thought of boarding with real freshmen had petrified him. Crowds remained overwhelming, screaming and laughter reminded him of the wails of the dying. The thought of partying nightly rendered him a quivering wreck. He had an excuse for every aspect of life that was not his bedroom at his parents and he was firmly resolved to simply acquire a white-collar job and forgo the experience altogether.</p><p>The sheer thought of having an episode in the midst of a frat party was almost enough to induce one - he was not going and that was that. </p><p>Yet his parents would hear of no such thing. </p><p>Eugene presumed it had been another string his Father had pulled when he found himself boarding in a quiet house, with other quiet men and a visiting house woman who took their laundry, cleaned the common room and kitchen and, he had the suspicion, reported on their general wellbeing each time she visited.</p><p>After being bullied into wearing a newly purchased letterman cardigan whilst his brother wailed with laughter at the sight, a pleasant dinner at one of the local diners, an encouraging pep talk from his Father accompanied by a hefty check for his account. With a farewell hug, for the first time since before leaving for the Marines, Eugene was alone.</p><p>And so had begun his college experience.</p><p>Life in Auburn was regimented; he liked that. He knew what to expect when to expect it and he always had ample time to prepare for a change in his routine. He had no one to worry about but himself.</p><p>Most importantly, it had been a completely fresh start.</p><p>There were no memories, no reminders, no reference at all to the war when he was at college. He didn’t talk about his service the same way his new friends and classmates didn’t talk about theirs.</p><p>Despite the fact that Billy Kimble only had one eye, Jimmy Barnett walked with a limp and Mary-Sue Lowe had burn scars across her left arm. It was like there had never been a war of any sorts.</p><p>Yet what Eugene enjoyed the most about Auburn was the fact that no one there had known him before. As a result, there was no expectation for him to behave a certain way and no comparison to how he had been before he had left for the Pacific.</p><p>To them, Eugene was just Eugene.</p><p>In Auburn, his war existed only in his own memories. In his memories and within the notebooks that he scribed into on the nights he awoke with a scream in the small hours of the morning.</p><p>But that was how he liked it. With the war - and everything that came with it - confined within himself. Eugene found it so much easier to compartmentalise the fact it had ever happened at all.</p><hr/><p>Sid talked a mile a minute as Eugene loaded his pipe, about med school and his wife and his new house and everything else in-between.</p><p>He listened attentively, chiming in questions every now and then, with genuine intrigue. After ten minutes, Sid paused.</p><p>'What about you?' He asked, leaning against the open window as he basked in the pleasant evening air at the red light they pulled up at. 'How's college goin'?'</p><p>Eugene huffed, taking a drag of his pipe. 'It's goin'.' He answered, for want of nothing better to say. He did not like mixing college and home; he intended to keep the two aspects of his life very separate. </p><p>Sid smirked. 'Get much skirt?' He asked, waggling an eyebrow. </p><p>The mere thought turned Eugene's stomach. 'Some.' He lied, with a shrug. 'Dances and that.'</p><p>'Hell, I bet you regret binnin' your uniform.' Sid responded, with a whistle. 'God, I love the damn bones of Mary but sometimes... I'd do anythin' for one more night as a free man.'</p><p>Eugene smirked. 'Ain't all it's cracked up to be.' He stated, relighting the dwindling tobacco at the end of his pipe.</p><p>'You're a strange man, Eugene Sledge.' He responded, shaking his head. 'You ready for somethin' that'll blow ya mind?'</p><p>'Shoot.' Eugene answered, blowing out a mouthful of smoke.</p><p>'Mary's pregnant.' Sid announced, his face almost splitting in two with sheer delight.</p><p>Eugene choked on his pipe. 'She's <em>what?!</em>' He demanded coughing, before pointing an accusatory finger at him. '<em>You</em> got Mary damn Houston knocked up with your ugly ass spawn? <em>What a sacrilege.</em>' </p><p>Sid laughed, slapping his arm. 'She only about two months gone so we ain't supposed to be tellin' no one yet.' He turned the car down onto the top of Eugene's street as he spoke. 'But it's you, I couldn't <em>not </em>tell you - ain't nothin' I'd be able to keep from you.' </p><p>Eugene smiled, taking a drag of his pipe. The statement settled uncomfortably in his stomach, yet he forced it away in favour of his best friend's happiness.</p><p>'Your secret's safe with me.' He stated, warmly. 'Congratulations, Sid!' He added, clapping him on the shoulder. 'Let's hope it just <em>completely </em>turns out like Mary.'</p><p>'And with that - welcome home!' Sid declared, pulling up the drive of his parents' house.<span class="u"></span></p><p>Eugene grinned. 'Tell Mary, I said hi and congratulations. You should come by for dinner, Mother would like that.'</p><p>'We will, I'll give you a call in a couple of days.'</p><p>'Thanks for the ride.' Eugene responded, climbing from the truck and, pulling his suitcase from the flatbed. He bade Sid goodbye with a wave and a slap to his paintwork, watching as he pulled all the way down the drive. Slowly, he turned, eyeing the front porch hesitantly before opening the front door. <em>He was home. </em></p><hr/><p>Whenever he arrived back in Mobile, it always took a day or so for Eugene to adjust. Hell, who was he kidding? He was usually still feeling out of place when it was time to leave.</p><p>His Mother smothered him upon his arrival, stripped him of the very shirt off his back and ordered everything he owned to be fully laundered despite his protestations. She would proceed to force a three-course meal of his favourite foods into him before insisting he at least <em>attempted</em> a second helping of Cobbler whilst she inundated him with questions about what he had been up to in the weeks since he had been home. He didn't hate the attention; their relationship had improved tenfold since he had left the house.</p><p>She could talk positively about how much progress he was making to her friends; how well he was doing at college. There had been little about him she wanted to discuss when he was holed up inside her house, losing touch with reality.</p><p>Now, she had two boys to be proud of. Edward - the accountant with the beautiful wife. Eugene - the biology student at Alabama Polytechnic, who'd overcome <em>such adversity</em>.</p><p>However, one difference about his return that particular Fall was the fact his Father was not delighted to see him, as he usually was.</p><p>He had been working in town the first afternoon of Eugene's return. Only arriving home after dinner. His Mother had wanted to surprise him; therefore his son's appearance had been highly unexpected. </p><p>Eugene had watched with bemusement as his Father had stilled as he walked into the dining room, briefcase clutched tightly in his grasp, as he paled in shock at the sight of him. glaring at him like he had grown a second head.</p><p>'Hell, Pop, at least <em>pretend</em> to be glad to see me.' He prosed with a grin. His brow twitched in surprise when he offered no response, choosing only to gape at him.</p><p>'Edward, whatever is the matter?' His Mother interjected sharply, wiping her mouth with her napkin. 'Aren't you pleased to see him?!' </p><p>The statement jarred him from whatever notion had been gripping him and he forced a smile that did not quite meet his eyes. </p><p>'Of course, I am!' He responded suddenly, striding forward to shaking his hand firmly. 'It's good to see you son.' </p><p>Eugene stared at him. 'You too.' He answered, searching his face for any inclination as to what may be wrong.</p><p>'I have some work to finish this evening but I'll be sure to sit with you both later.' He stated, with an uncommon formality. 'Enjoy your dinner.' With that, he turned on his heel, disappearing into his study. </p><p>He glanced to his Mother, with a perplexed expression. 'You argued?' He asked.</p><p>She tutted at him. 'No, he's been like that for a week or more.' She glanced over her shoulder. '<em>Irritable. </em>Won't let on what the matter with him.' She turned back to her roast chicken. 'Very odd.' </p><p>Eugene nodded, casting a gaze at the shut study door. 'Odd indeed.' He agreed.</p><hr/><p>It was his Father's persistent avoidance of him that made Eugene resolve to cut his visit short. After all, Fall break was only a fortnight and why would he want to spend such precious time off tiptoeing around the house hoping to avoid any awkward interactions with his Father?</p><p>He broke the news to his Mother less than forty-eight hours after his return, he would only be staying until the end of the week. After all, as Dr Simms always told him - <em>if an environment is not positive, you have no obligation to remain.</em></p><p>To Eugene's regret, the dinner he had planned with Sid would not actualise, after all. Their schedules simply wouldn't marry before he was due to leave. However, to his delight, Sid announced that he would be able to stop by on Tuesday afternoon and they would grab a movie together. <em>After Eugene had retrieved his old fishing rod, that was. </em></p><p>'Your Ma's great.' Sid stated, striding up the stairs behind Eugene as he finished cramming in the Bundt Cake his Mother had prepared for his arrival. 'Don't know what you got to complain about.'</p><p>'Hmm.' Eugene answered, absently.</p><p>'You still seeing that Quack?' Sid continued, an air of mocking to his voice. 'Forgot to ask y'the other day.'</p><p>'Yep.' He responded, irritably as his stomach clenched. Ever since starting Medical School, Sid had acted like the divine knowledge of everything and anything medical based. His disdain for psychiatric practices did not go unnoted. 'And I told you before - Dr Simms ain't a Quack.'</p><p>'No, I know, I know.' Sid stated, holding his hands up in defence. 'He's a <em>Psychiatrist.' </em></p><p>Eugene rolled his eyes. 'Which part of the rod you need?' He asked, changing the subject as they reached the landing.</p><p>'Why? I thought you was giving me the whole thing.' Sid answered, with a frown.</p><p>'So I know which part to throw out the window.' He muttered, with a grin to himself as his best friend kicked him in the back of the shin.</p><p>'Asshole.' He rebuked. 'I need the reel seat - mine's shot.'</p><p>Eugene made for his bedroom closet, rummaging around in the back as Sid stood in the doorway, staring around the room with a bemused expression. </p><p>'Hell, I don't think I've been up here since before I left for Bootcamp.' He announced, in a thoughtful voice.</p><p>'You ain't missin' much - ain't changed.' Eugene answered, disinterestedly, before withdrawing from the cupboard. 'It must be in the attic - Mother had a clear out when I was gone.'</p><p>'I'll make myself comfortable.' Sid stated, with a grin, settling down onto the bed. </p><p>Eugene clicked his tongue, irritably. 'I'll go up then - don't mind me.' He insisted.</p><p>'I won't.' He assured him, winking goadingly as Eugene grunted angrily, heading back to the landing as he reached for the attic pole. </p><p>Sid rose from the bed, nosing around the room. Eugene was right, it wasn't very much different from how he had had it in high school. The same furniture and orientation, the same paint on the walls. His bedding was different though, less blue. <em>Hell, </em><em>seventeen-year-old Eugene had loved blue. </em></p><p>He eyed the picture on the wall - some peaceful looking beachline with boats. He frowned, it looked like the Pavuvu bay.</p><p>'You sure you ain't gonna use it?' He called, as Eugene lifted the ladder from the hatch.</p><p>He gave a bark of laughter. 'I fuckin' hated fishing as a child - I hate it even more as an adult... it's all yours.' He assured him, before disappearing through the hatch.</p><p>'Well, you ain't getting the pole back.' Sid responded, with a smile. 'So your mind better be made up.'</p><p>He leafed through the textbooks on Eugene's desk - <em>Animals without backbones: A full study into the anatomy of amphibians. Comparative Vertebrate: ANATOMY &amp; Hyman. General Biology.</em></p><p>Trust Eugene to be studying over the Fall break.</p><p>There were more books.</p><p>
  <em>RHS Botany for Gardners. Birds: The Art of Ornithology. A Complete Guide to the birds of the southern states. </em>
</p><p>He smiled; it was good to see Eugene becoming more of himself again. 'You get chance to do much bird watchin' since bein' home?' He called.</p><p>'Not really.' Came Eugene's reply. 'Mother's dragged me into town twice for new clothes and a haircut - not that I'm an almost 24-year-old war veteran.'</p><p>'War veteran - who you kiddin'?' Sid chuckled. 'Hell, you can't help miss her when you're away.'</p><p>Eugene mumbled something in reply that Sid missed as he continued to peruse along Eugene's shelves. </p><p>His pot of pens has neatly aligned to the left of his writing space, a couple of university notebooks - nothing of worth.</p><p>He reached into his top desk drawer, in search of something juicy.</p><p>He rummaged, unsure of what he was looking for until he found it.</p><p>A book. A worn book that lay at the bottom of the draw. With a faded blue leather spine and curled edges from years of usage. The tasselled string knotted tightly around the centre. Sid cackled. Eugene’s high school journal.</p><p>‘Look at you Oscar Wilde!’ He cried. ‘As if you still have this?’</p><p>‘Have what?’ Eugene’s voice came from above him.</p><p>Sid smirked, lifting it from the drawer.</p><p>‘You still got the love letters you wrote to Vera Rhodes… hell, you got any dirty poems ‘bout my wife?’ He yanked at the bindings and ripped the book open eagerly. He chuckled lowly, remembering the passages fondly. Eugene's botched attempts of poetry; that he had read aloud emphatically on his eighteenth birthday.</p><p>He skimmed the pages.</p><p>There was nothing overly of interest, nothing dated past 1941. Until he reached the back.</p><p>There were scrapings. Odds of sentences that cut off mid-flow. Nothing that made sense.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>To feel so undesirable in one’s own…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>The darkness is where…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>My loneliness destroys…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I destroy…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>It hurts to think of…</em> </strong>
</p><p>Pages were ripped out, the jagged edges of paper signifying five to ten pages having been deemed too offensive to keep.</p><p>Something stirred in Sid's mind as to what this was. These were clearly Eugene’s inner turmoil of the war.</p><p>His conscience urged him to place the book back into the drawer – pretend he had never read it. He had no right to read it. This was obscene attrition of boundaries. Then again; Eugene was his best friend and they didn't have secrets. He'd told him about the baby, after all.</p><p>He had struggled more than most; Sid knew that. But Eugene had never allowed him to be privy to the extent of his real feelings about the war; he knew not even Edward had been granted such a luxury. Eugene was a closed book; always had been. Especially since returning from China.</p><p>They hadn’t been as close since their return from the Marines; Sid knew he was mostly to blame for that.</p><p>He remembered the stories of last summer, painfully. Eugene's assault on his sister-in-law. He had heard about the Sledge's fateful Independence Day party through his Mother first, having still been living at college with Mary at the time.</p><p>He had finally caught up with him a few weeks afterwards when he'd had the time to ring. He'd sounded fine, but Sid had known many men to sound fine. Le Blanc had sounded fine the afternoon before he had stripped naked in the pouring rain and pointed his handgun into his mouth. </p><p>But Eugene was different; Sid knew that. He never had to worry about Eugene. No matter how bad Eugene got, he always had a smile to crack - <em>a joke</em>. Eugene was too strong to crack. More to the point, his Father would never have <em>let him</em> succumb to battle fatigue. </p><p>He smirked at the irony; a psychiatrist's son needing a psychiatrist.</p><p>Sid wasn’t entirely sure what he would even do if Eugene tried to talk about the war. He didn't wish to discuss his war in the same way he didn't wish to discuss his own experience.His memories of Eugene at war were as they had been at home. He'd been happy, carefree - <em>if a little naive</em>. Optimistic. Kind. </p><p>He didn't like to think of any other kind of Eugene. It was unsettling.</p><p>Then again, he wasn't a fool. Sid knew far more went on behind the scenes than he let on.</p><p>Eugene had just admitted to still seeing the quack. He was an expensive one, too, according to Sid's Father. He didn't know any man who was still suffering that badly almost two years after coming home, so Eugene must have been struggling more than most.</p><p>Whilst something urged him to return the book to its home; to allow his best friend to retain his privacy, something stronger within him urged him to turn the pages and keep reading. To gain some insight into his turmoil without having to endure the conversation. So, on he read.</p><p>
  <strong><em>What did I do that you couldn't say goodbye</em>?</strong>
</p><p>Sid frowned. <em>Goodbye?</em> There was nothing conclusive within these musings – further cut-offs. Statements? Poetry? ... Confessions?</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I close my eyes and you’re here. And then you’re gone….</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>My loneliness consumes me. It spills out into daylight… there’s a hole…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I would go back. Back to the mud and the blood. Back for just five…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Why did you go?</em> </strong>
</p><p>This was about someone. Did Eugene have a girl? Had he met someone and not said anything about it?</p><p>He turned the page again. Eugene’s handwriting neatly filled the lines. This entry was different. Concise. Eloquent. As though he were posting an apology letter of overdue books back to the library - it was dated 01/47.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I have so much I need to tell you, so much that it cripples me. It’s like I have shards of glass broken off in my mouth, choking on the emotions that I need to share with someone. Yet it's fruitless because the only person I want to share them with is you. But you're gone, so on I must choke. </em></strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I know that even if we came face to face again that me telling you of my ails wouldn’t be the issue. Getting you to listen is what would be the tribulation. I learnt a long time ago that trying to force you into something is like trying to pin down a cloud. Impossible.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>So I will narrow down the oceans of thoughts and words and deeds I wish to tell you and I hope that you will compromise with me for five minutes, just to listen. Despite what I know you must think, I don’t hate you.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I know how you carry guilt around like the weight of the world. How you haul it on your shoulders like you used to bear that goddamn mortar.</em> </strong>
</p><p>Sid’s stomach clenched. He tried to slam the book before it was too late, yet his eyes kept moving across the words.</p><p>
  <strong><em>Mostly, I need you to know that I understand. I understand why you did it, even though it’s drives me further into the pits of hell than the war ever did. Further into the pits of hell than I thought were ever possible. Because every waking breath without you by my side is hell.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong><em>And I need you to know that I don’t hate you. Not even slightly. Not even at all. Everyone tells me that time heals. But it is a lie. Time does not heal; over time you simply grow used to the pain.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I know you’re not coming back now. I have to live with that. I have to move on with my life.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>But before I do that I need you to know that I do understand why you left. I just wish that you had said goodbye before you did.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I wish I had had the opportunity to know that each touch I had, each word I spoke, each glance I took would be my last. I wish you would have let me say goodbye, Merriell. That is all.</em> </strong>
</p><p>Sid instantly dropped the book, like he had been burnt.</p><p>He felt sick. He felt panicked.</p><p><em>What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?</em> <em>Fuck. Fuck.</em></p><p>Merriell was a man’s name. Merriell was a man. </p><p>‘I said - still have what?’ Eugene’s voice came again and Sid scrambled, wrapping the twine back around the book before tossing it back into his desk drawer. Eugene appeared in the doorway, clutching the fishing pole  ‘Jesus, Sid, you gone deaf?’ He quipped, a clueless smile on his face. Completely ignorant to his best friend's discovery.</p><p>Sid gaped, his mouth dry, his heart racing, confusion filling him. <em>Why are you missing a man?</em> He wanted to say.</p><p>‘That.’ He pointed blindly to the ship in a corked bottle that sat on his desk. He had built it with his Father when he was a boy.</p><p>Eugene frowned. ‘Oscar Wilde?’ His lip curled. ‘Oscar Wilde didn’t build ships, y'moron.’</p><p>Sid scratched his neck, he mouth slack, his stomach churning. ‘Y’know… I’ve gotta…’ He trailed off, gesturing for the door.</p><p>‘We not sortin' these rods?’ Eugene asked, gesturing to the pole in his hand confusedly. 'I thought we were goin' to the movies?'</p><p>‘Sorry, Gene, can we rain check?’ He flustered, barging past him into the landing. ‘I’ve completely forgotten I told Mary I’d pick her Mother up from the store.’</p><p>Eugene eyed him, bewilderedly. ‘Sure.’ He murmured, watching as Sid thundered down the stairs without even a second glance. </p><p>He eyed the fishing pole in his grip, with annoyance. </p><p>'I fell in a damn Spider's Web for this.' He muttered to himself, before hearing the door slam. Suddenly, his eyes shot to his desk, panic twitching in his gut. Yet to his relief, nothing was disturbed. He sighed, shaking his head.</p><p>
  <em>Sid was the second person since his return that was keeping something from him.</em>
</p><hr/><p>It was over lunch the following afternoon that his Mother suddenly jumped up with a shrill cry of realisation.</p><p>'What's wrong?' Eugene asked, glancing up from his meal.</p><p>'This letter arrived for you a week or so ago.’ His Mother stated, rummaging in the bureau before placing a letter on the table beside him. ‘I was going to forward it to you but never got round to it.’</p><p>‘Who’s it from?’ Eugene asked, reaching for the envelope.</p><p>‘The war office, I think.’ She answered, resuming her seat opposite him.</p><p>He smirked, huffing out a peal of unamused laughter.</p><p>This was his eighth application of location; he’d received enough of these responses to know the official wording by heart. Yet he ripped the envelope open all the same, just on the offchance...</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Dear Mr. Sledge.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Thank you for your request.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Unfortunately, the address we have for CPL. M. E. Shelton (433874 – K/5/3) is out of date. We have been unable to identify a next of kin.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Therefore, we are unable to locate the individual requested, at this time.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Sincerely.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>P. Elliot.</em> </strong>
</p><p>He let out a breath. </p><p>
  <em>We are unable to locate the individual requested, at this time.</em>
</p><p>Despite the familiarity of the words, nor the fact he fully expected to read them, the statement never failed to gut him each time.</p><p>‘Everything alright?’ His Mother asked.</p><p>He nodded, re-reading the contents of the letter.</p><p>‘Lost the... address of a war buddy.’ He stated, with a steadying breath. ‘Wanted to see if they could find him.’</p><p>‘Oh Dear.’ She responded, lightly. ‘I hope you’ll track him down.’</p><p>Eugene swallowed, pressing his thumb against the typewritten name, rolling his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before folding the letter in half.  ‘You know what, Mama?’ He asked, quietly.</p><p>She glanced at him.</p><p>‘I don’t think I will.’ He stated, softly. ‘He’s not the type to be found if he doesn’t want to be.’</p><p>She pulled a face, missing the way his voice waivered painfully. ‘He sounds ignorant.’ She stately, repugnantly. ‘Not your sort at all, my love.’</p><p>He quartered the letter, placing it on the top of the dining table as he tapped it gently with his index finger. ‘No.’ He agreed. ‘He wasn’t my sort, at all.’ He stated. ‘And I don’t imagine I was very much his, either.’</p><p>He cleared his throat, tightly, blinking away the misting that suddenly filled his eyes as he fiddled with his napkin on his lap.</p><p>‘But, sometimes opposites work in the best way, don’t they?’</p><p>She blinked at him, with an odd expression on her face. ‘I suppose sometimes they do.’ She agreed, as though finally realising how much this elusive friend meant to him. ‘Were you good friends?’ She asked.</p><p>‘The best.’ He answered, truthfully. ‘He was…’ He trailed off, the thought of discussing Merriell leaving an agonised griping in his stomach. ‘He was the one… who carried me from the creek.’ He stated.</p><p>‘The Creek?’ She asked, with a frown.</p><p>
  <em>The Boot exploding before his eyes. The deafening blast rattled in his ears. The scream of his name. The suffocation of dirt filling his mouth. The stench of burning flesh and gunpowder. The agony ripping through his body. ‘Go now.’ The mouthful of fabric. The warmth of his body and the grounding presence; the hands in his hair. </em>
</p><p>Dr. Simms' teachings suddenly filled his mind.</p><p>
  <strong>Revisit the memory – remember the details factually.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Locate the nine S’s – three sights, three smells, three strokes.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Remember where you are – separate yourself from the flashback, it is only a memory.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Actualise the event – it happened.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>State the facts – there is no need to glorify or placate the occurrence to your audience.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Accept their response – whatever you are feeling is validated.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Move on with your day – the past is behind you; the future is before you.</strong>
</p><p>Eugene submerged himself in the memory. He took a grounding breath.</p><p><em>You were blown up. You were buried. You couldn't breathe. You were pulled from the dirt. Burgie ripped the wood from your leg. Snafu held you. </em><em>Snafu held you. Snafu held you. Snafu. Held you.</em> <strong>R</strong><strong>emember the details factually.</strong></p><p>He opened his eyes.</p><p>He glanced around him – his grandmothers’ chinaware in the armoire, the butter tray on the table, the placemat beneath his dish. <strong>Three sights.</strong></p><p>He inhaled deeply – the room smelt like sandwiches and chicken soup, the laundry powder coming from the washroom, the fragrance of his Mother’s perfume. <strong>Three smells.</strong></p><p>He moved his hands to the table – the tablecloth was starched beneath his fingertips, the plate that had held his lunch was cold and damp from steam, his trouser leg was soft, the crease line down the middle tickled the pad of his thumb. <strong>Three strokes. </strong></p><p>He was safe and home, eating lunch with his Mother on Wednesday, September 17th 1947. <strong>Separate yourself from the flashback, it is only a memory.</strong></p><p><em>I was blown up and I can still remember the agony. It terrified me then and it terrified me now. It makes me angry they were going to leave me. I miss him every day. </em> <strong>It happened.</strong></p><p>‘The Creek.’ He answered simply. ‘I was caught in a grenade fire and I got buried in a creek. This buddy… dug me out and carried me back to camp.’ <strong>T</strong><strong>here is no need to glorify or placate the occurrence to your audience.</strong></p><p>He watched his Mother blanch. This was the first time he had spoken to her directly about the war, he realised now. He remembered telling the story to his Father and had just assumed she had been there, too. She clearly hadn't. </p><p>'You we... you were buried?' She asked, looking horror-stricken. </p><p>He forced the guilt from his stomach for burdening her with such a image. He didn't want her to have such an image of him, didn't want her to know such a world existed.</p><p>Then again, it wasn't her who had been buried. It wasn't her who had been carried for thirty miles with broken ribs as he bled out; it wasn't her who had nearly died. It wasn't her who had been left. It wasn't his guilt. He had nothing to feel guilty for. <strong>Whatever you are feeling is validated.</strong></p><p>'Yes.' Eugene stated, clearing his throat as he moved his hand from the letter, picking up his remaining crust of sandwich. 'But I'm not buried anymore, am I?' He added, lightly, reaching for the paper beside him. <strong>The past is behind you, the future is before you.</strong></p><p>
  <strong>It was time to move on with his day. </strong>
</p><p>'The forecast is supposed to be nice for the week, are you having your book club outside? We have so few nice days left.'</p><p>He watched her swallow, unsure quite how to respond before she nodded.</p><p>'I think I might.' She agreed. </p><p>The click of his Father's study door made them both look up.</p><p>'Good Afternoon.' He greeted, politely, taking his seat across from Eugene at the table. 'I'm sorry I missed breakfast this morning.'</p><p>'Good Afternoon, Father.' He answered, cheerfully. 'Have you had a good morning?'</p><p>He nodded, not looking at him as he reached for the tray of sandwiches Annie had prepared for them. 'Fine, thank you, yourself?'</p><p>'It's flown by.' He stated, feigning normality. 'We went to town.' </p><p>He felt his Mother's gaze on him as he spoke, as perplexed by his Father's attitude as he was. He had been home four days and during the course of his stay, his Father had said a total of about ten sentences to him - even less to his Mother. This was the first meal he had eaten with them and the first time he had engaged in conversation beyond answering questions.</p><p>Not that they would discuss whatever the issue was, they weren't that kind of family.</p><p>'Have some tea, dear.' She murmured, passing the pot, towards him. Suddenly, she pulled her face.</p><p>'For goodness sake!' She tutted, frustratedly. 'It's stone cold - Annie's putting tepid water in again. I'll get another brew.'</p><p>'Thank you, my love.' He answered, with an affectionate smile.</p><p>Eugene gritted his teeth, a bubbling in his stomach. <em>The issue wasn't her then. </em></p><p>He waited until she had left the dining room heading through to the kitchen, the silence heavy in the air, broken only by the chink of his Father ladeling himself soup from the serving dish. He leant back against his chair, folding his arms over his stomach.</p><p>'You want to talk about it?' He asked.</p><p>'Talk about what?' His Father responded, obtusely.</p><p>'Whatever it is s'got your goat?' He prompted, raising his eyebrows. 'Cos you ain't bein' off with her - just with me, so what is it?' </p><p>'I don't know...' He began, yet Eugene clicked his tongue frustratedly, cutting him off mid sentences.</p><p>'Don't do this!' He snapped. 'Mother does this - silent treatment, evasive conversation - you don't do this.'</p><p>'I don't do a lot of things.' His Father murmured, tightly, gazing at his sandwich intently. 'You can tell me anything; you know that, don't you, son?' Slowly, he raised his gaze.</p><p>Eugene surveyed him. He nodded, slowly. </p><p>'I do.' He answered. 'You do, too, don't you?' He added. 'Tell me anything.'</p><p>There was something brewing in his Father's eyes that he couldn't quite place.</p><p>Suddenly, the door flew open, making Eugene jump from an oppressive atmosphere that he didn't know had settled. </p><p>'Eugene, Sidney is out back for you.' His Mother announced.</p><p>'Thank you, I'll be through in a second.' He responded, holding his Father's gaze unwaveringly. 'Father and I are just having a conversation.'</p><p>'No.' He stated, suddenly. 'No... we'll... we'll...' He trailed off and for the first time, Eugene noticed how his hands trembled. 'We'll have a discussion when you're home, Eugene.'</p><p>He eyed him uncertainly, unwanting this to be the only opportunity they had for him to settle the air.</p><p>'I swear.'</p><p>Eugene nodded. 'Alright.' He agreed, before rising to his feet. 'He out back?' He added, glancing at his Mother.</p><p>She nodded, settling back down in her seat. 'Yes and he seems in quite a state.'</p><p>Eugene frowned, hurrying to the hall to grab his bomber jacket. </p><p>'There's something in the damn water this week, I swear.' He mused, shrugging it on as his Mother tittered in agreement. His Father remained silent.</p><p>He headed back through to the dining room. 'Thank you for lunch, Mother.' He stated, reaching for his folded letter and shoving it inside pocket. 'Father.' He acknowledged, before leaving the room, failing to notice quite how heavy his Father's silence remained. </p><p>Sid sat on the back porch, cigarette burning between his knuckles as he stared into the distance.</p><p>Eugene grinned at the sight of him. 'You here for the rod, y'runaway bride?' He joked, though his smile fell to the wayside at the terse expression Sid offered him in return.</p><p>'C...' He stammered, his chest rising and falling quickly. 'Can we talk?' He asked. </p><p>Eugene frowned. 'You OK?' He asked, panic rising in his chest. 'Is Mary alright? Nothing's wrong with the baby?'</p><p>Sid shook his head. 'No... no that... that's fine... I just need to talk to you.'</p><p>He nodded, uncertainly. 'OK, then.' </p><p>A silence descended, in which Sid stared at his feet. Perched against the final step of the porch. </p><p>'Sid, you're scarin' me.' He stated. 'What do you want to talk about.'</p><p>'Not here.' He answered, monotonously. 'Let's... let's head... down yonder... t'the Fell.' </p><p>Eugene nodded, unsurely. 'Sure.' He answered, reaching into his trouser pocket for his pipe and tobacco as Sid rose to his feet, storming four paces ahead of him. He followed, uncertainly.</p><p>'You eaten?' He asked, halfway across the backfield. 'Can get Annie to pack some leftovers for you.'</p><p>'Na, Gene, I.. I don't wanna eat.' He responded, stiffly. </p><p>Eugene nodded to himself, a sickening thought creeping up his spine. <em>No, don't be an idiot. How could he possibly?! </em></p><p>They walked in silence, Sid leading the way, Eugene trailing behind in a state of utter bewilderment as they passed the two fields out the back of his parent's house and began to pick up the waterline of Threemile Creek. </p><p>They settled further down the shoreline, by the clearing where they played as boys. Sid sank to the seat of his trousers as he stared hypnotically into the flowers. Slowly, Eugene took a seat beside him.</p><p>'You ready to talk now?' He asked uncertainly.</p><p>Eugene watched him swallow, raising his pipe to his mouth and igniting it.</p><p>Sid took a breath, lowering his head to his knees, his mouth struggled around the words. 'I... I found something the other day.' He stated. </p><p>Eugene's heart rate quickened. 'What?' He asked, utterly bewildered. 'L... like a lump?' </p><p>He shook his head. 'In your room.'</p><p>Eugene's stomach fell, as his hearing began to go tinny. <em>Don't be a damn idiot. </em> </p><p>'I shouldn't have been lookin... but... and I've been tryin... I don't know how... I can't stop...' He fumbled, his hands shaking as he attempted to reach for a new cigarette.</p><p>'Sid, out with it.' Eugene responded, stonily. <em>Shit. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Shit.</em></p><p>'If I ask you a question, you'll tell me the truth won't you?' Sid surmised, quietly. </p><p>
  <em>He knows.</em>
</p><p>Eugene could barely hear over the pounding in his own ears. Couldn't breathe through the sickness in his stomach. Desolately, he nodded, his pipe clutched between his teeth. His eyes firmly against the ground.</p><p>'S... sure.' He answered, his voice barely audible. </p><p>Sid paused, under the knowledge that once this question was out in the open, it could never be redacted. He swallowed, gazing at his childhood best friend with a pained expression. He licked his lower lip and allowed the agonising question to fall from his lips.</p><p>‘Are you queer?’</p><p>Eugene desperately tried to speak, yet found himself unable to do anything other than stare at him. He had been expecting the question, yet to hear it aloud didn't fail to physically wind him as though he had been punched. He gaped, sweat erupting across his entire body. His lips slackened around his pipe - he felt... he fe... <em>Fuc</em><em>k.</em></p><p>Wordlessly, he removed his pipe from his mouth and diverted his gaze from Sid to the floor, unable to utter the answer.</p><p>His muteness only served as an affirmation.</p><p>'Shit.' Sid breathed, tears pricking against his eyes as he forced down the urge to be violently sick.</p><p>
  <em>Not Eugene. Eugene wasn’t a freak. Eugene was Eugene. Normal Eugene. Safe Eugene. Brave Eugene. Kind Eugene. Dependable Eugene. The same Eugene as when they were boys and when they were teenagers. The same Eugene he had tackled against the dirt in Pavuvu. The Eugene he had prayed for as he departed home for America. The Eugene he thought of every day since. The Eugene he deferred his wedding for.</em>
</p><p>But as they sat on the grass at twenty-four, with Eugene refusing to look him in the face. His worst fears that had been brewing over the past 29 1/2 hours were actualised. <em>Eugene was a homosexual.</em></p><p>Eugene tried to verbalise something, <em>anything. </em>Yet still, nothing came out. He was going to be sick, he was sure of it. Either be sick or pass out. Maybe both. After what seemed like hours, he dared to raise his gaze, taking in the terrified expression on Sid’s face. </p><p>The game was up.</p><p>Wordlessly, he raised the pipe back to his mouth, holding it between his teeth, tightly. He gave a curt nod, the bit shattering in his mouth from the pressure with which he held it, tears absently began to fall from his eyes.</p><p>‘Fuck.’ Was all Sid could manage.</p><p>Eugene gaped, again trying to speak. For the third time, his body failed him. He felt like he had the pressure of a grown man stood on his lungs. Felt like he was being suffocated. He burnt with humiliation, <em>with shame</em>. Then he burnt further, with the guilt of betraying who he was, whilst simultaneously hating what he was.</p><p>'How...' He managed, his voice not sounding like his own. 'What did. you..'</p><p>'Your journal.' Sid answered, folding his arms over his knees as he stared at his boots. 'There's a j...'</p><p>'I know.' He stated, stiffly, the sickness being replaced with an anger. 'You had <em>no right</em> to...'</p><p>'Don't<em> fucking</em> tell me what I have a right to do!' Sid shot back, venom dripping from his voice, unlike anything Eugene had ever heard.</p><p>He fell silent, the desolation returning as it instantly quelled the anger. <em>He was disgusting. </em></p><p>Suddenly, Sid chuckled desperately.</p><p>‘No, Eugene…’ He trailed off, shaking his head defiantly. ‘No… no... you... ain’t…’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a steadying breath.</p><p>
  <em>Homosexuals were dirty, homosexuals were criminals, homosexuals were abusers, homosexuals were perverts, homosexuals were an abomination against God. Eugene couldn’t be any of those things, he was Eugene.</em>
</p><p>‘You ain't... you're not a fuckin' <em>freak</em>.'</p><p>Eugene winced at the insult, wrapping his arms against his knees.</p><p>'Gene… this is…’ Sid trailed off. ‘This is some kind of… this is some kind of Battle Fatigue… just some… some kind… you’re just sick… you've been so sick since you got home... you ain't been right since you came home... this is just... you're just... sick...’ He clutched, desperately hoping that Eugene would suddenly turn round and agree with him. </p><p>Each word burnt in Eugene’s chest, agonising tears leaking from his eyes and falling down his cheeks as each poorly aimed bid to save his soul fell agonisingly like bullets into his skin. They burnt, they destroyed. He watched as twenty years of brotherhood exploded into dust before him.</p><p>‘Sid.’ He breathed, taking his pipe from his mouth and spitting the sharded rubber he realised was still stuck against his tongue to the grass. ‘I…’ He paused, his voice cracking. ‘I ain’t…’ Fresh tears flowed down his cheeks. ‘I ain’t sick<em>.</em>’</p><p>‘YES, YOU ARE!’ Sid’s explosion was visceral, <em>agonised</em>. ‘YES, YOU FUCKING ARE! BECAUSE IF YOU’RE NOT WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?!’</p><p>Eugene suddenly let out his own shout of fury - of pain, of frustration, of sheer agony - as he was rendered incensed by his best friend's outburst. </p><p>'I'M A FUCKING FAGGOT!' He shouted, desperately, his response falling from his body at least fifty decibels higher than he intended.</p><p>Sid flinched against his unexpected eruption. It wasn't like Eugene to defend himself.</p><p>'I'M A <em>QUEER!</em> A <em>FAIRY!</em> AN... <em>AN</em> <em>INVERT!</em> A GODDAMN WHATEVER YOU WANNA FUCKIN' CALL IT HOMOSEXUAL!' </p><p>He covered his face, the humiliation and the agony of the situation burnt, but the feeling of release was un-paralleled.</p><p>‘I’m a fuckin' fruit.’ He buried his lips against the fabric of his trouser leg as he rocked himself, trying to suppress the urge to be sick. ‘I’m. A fucking. Queer.'</p><p>With a deep breath, he finally encompassed the courage to lift his gaze back to Sid who stared at him desolately.</p><p>‘I’m fucking Queer.’</p><p>The punch was short, sharp and painful.</p><p>Sid’s fist came out nowhere striking him just above the jaw and sent him flying backwards, knocking his pipe to the floor.</p><p>He lay there for a moment in a state of shock, head beneath the soft grass as they sat in the wood of bluebells, beside the creek in which they had played as boys. Slowly, raised himself back to a sitting position as he raised a shaking hand to cup his burning skin.</p><p>Sid finally let the tears begin to flow above him.</p><p>A deafening silence descended. For the first time in their entire lives, neither knowing what to say to the other.</p><p>‘Do… do…’ Sid finally uttered, tears dripping from his nose. ‘Do you <em>like kids</em>?’</p><p>Eugene’s mouth slackened, his face contorted, his burning cheek forgotten. ‘Do… do I?’ He couldn’t repeat the sentence. ‘NO!’ He objected. ‘Do <em>you</em>?!’</p><p>Sid’s jaw hardened, his eyes darkened. ‘I ain’t the fuckin' abomination.’ He responded, viciously.</p><p>The words were agony to Eugene’s ears. He cleared his throat, one thought trailing through the back of his mind.</p><p>
  <em>Despite his anger; Sid was still here.</em>
</p><p>‘No!’ He responded, indignantly. ‘No, I fucking don’t.’ He paused. ‘It’s just <em>fucking</em> <em>ignorance</em>.’ His voice shook and he reached for his pipe, grateful to find it still burning. ‘I don’t like kids any more than you do… how can you even ask me that?’</p><p>Sid nodded, desperately, clutching his knees. He wore a look on his face that could only be equated to being informed that a loved one had been cured of a terminal illness. Eugene did not appear to be overcome with the urges of a sexual predator. There was hope yet.</p><p>‘OK.’ He stated, <em>still fucking nodding</em>.</p><p>If the sight wasn’t infuriatingly pitiful, Eugene would have scoffed.</p><p>‘Ain’t a cure for it Sid.’ He murmured, watching his friend's face crumble again, as though the death sentence had returned. ‘It's... I'm just<em> like this</em>... I just <em>like men</em>… that’s it. Ain’t a whole dog and pony show.’</p><p>‘There’s a dog and a pony?!’ Sid demanded, looking incredulously horrified.</p><p>‘Sid, it ain't like we was taught.' Eugene murmured desperately.</p><p>
  <em>If only he could make him see.</em>
</p><p>Sid scoffed repulsively, in response.</p><p>Eugene swallowed. 'No... tell me <em>a homosexual</em>... what do<em> you</em> think that means? What do you think a homosexual is?’</p><p>Sid let an odd noise out the back of his throat. 'Y… they… they have the urge to… be intimate… with other… men… but when they can’t find men, they… they force… themselves…’</p><p>Eugene closed his eyes.</p><p>Sid was not an ignorant man. He was not a bad man. He was the opposite, an intelligent, kind, brave soul. He had just never left the South but to go to war. All they had ever been taught of homosexuality was the antiquated ravings of their Youth Minister in tenth grade. <em>It was easier to fear than it was to understand.</em></p><p>It had taken Eugene himself the past three years to untangle the web of misinformation that had been woven through his veins.</p><p>‘No.' He stated, quietly, shaking his head. He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘I promise you. It ain't anything to be scared of. <em>I</em> was scared. <em>Terrified.</em> I fought <em>so hard </em>for it not to be true. I <em>didn't want this. </em>I <em>don't want this....' </em>He gasped against a sob brewing in his chest. </p><p>
  <em>He just had to make him understand. </em>
</p><p>'B... but... I didn't <em>choose</em> this... you gotta realise that... it just is... I can't <em>turn this off...'</em> </p><p>
  <em>He just had to make him understand.</em>
</p><p>'But it ain't anythin' to be scared of, Sid... it's just likin' men... that's all... I like men same as you like women.' He let out a staggered breath, wiping his eyes furiously.</p><p>
  <em>He just had to make him understand. </em>
</p><p>'Homosexuals like other homosexuals, it ain't goin' round hurtin' people...I’m... I ain’t a danger to nobody, I ain’t a rapist, I ain’t <em>no kind of threat to nobody</em>.' He choked, tears beginning to fall thick and heavy.</p><p>
  <em>He had to make him understand. </em>
</p><p>'I’m not a freak, I’m not a<em> bad person</em>.’ His voice cracked as he gently sucked on his pipe, trying to avoid inhaling lose tobacco.</p><p>Sid nodded again. ‘Me… me?’ He stammered, a feeling of repulsion in his stomach. ‘D… do you wanna…’</p><p>‘No!’ Eugene insisted, shaking his head furiously. He paused, wiping his eyes before trying to inject a little humour. ‘You’re too fucking ugly.’</p><p>A pained silence followed as the joke fell flat. Sid looking at him with an expression of untold fury, horror and betrayal.</p><p>‘Sid, you’ve been <em>my brother</em> for <em>twenty years</em>.’ He stated. ‘I don’t… I don’t wanna do anything like that to you.’</p><p>‘Who's Merriell?' Sid asked, quietly.</p><p>Eugene winced, the name falling agonising against his ears. He shook his head, lowering his gaze to the floor, tears falling like bullets onto the grass below.</p><p>'Who. The fuck. Is Merriell?!' Sid repeated.</p><p>'You...' Eugene trailed off. 'You remember... Shelton?' He asked, agonisingly. 'Snafu Shelton?'</p><p>A silence descended as Sid frowned, the name familiar.</p><p>Suddenly, realisation washed over him. 'The goddamn psychopathic Cajun from Pavuvu?!' Sid repeated incredulously. 'That fuckin' <em>Coon-Ass?</em>'</p><p>
  <em>Don't call him that. </em>
</p><p>Eugene nodded.</p><p>‘Did he do this to you?!’ He asked, his voice hardening. ‘Did he… did… are you still fucking seeing him?’</p><p>'No.' Eugene answered. <em>Christ, that hurt more than he thought it would. </em>'No. I ain't... <em>seen him</em> since we got home.'</p><p>'That dirty fuckin'... mongrel ass Swamp Kike.'</p><p>‘Sid!’ Eugene’s voice shook, with fury. 'Shut <em>the fuck up</em>.'</p><p>Instantly, he fell silent, surveying him with a look of complete untold emotion.</p><p>
  <em>He just had to make him understand.</em>
</p><p>‘Listen to me.’ Eugene felt steadier, Sid’s vitriol was no longer an attack on him, it was an attack on Merriell too.</p><p>He could talk whatever shit he wanted about him, but not a damn word about Merriell.</p><p>‘I know this is hard to get your head round.’ Sid opened his mouth to speak but Eugene held his hand out, angrily. <em>‘No</em>. You’ve made your feelings <em>fucking clear</em>.’ He gestured to his reddening jaw. ‘Now it’s <em>my turn</em>, OK?’</p><p>He held his breath and Sid gave a petulant nod.</p><p>‘Whatever shit you think you know about Queers, that’s what we are – <em>Queers</em> – not faggots, not fairies, not fucking <em>paedophiles</em> – forget it all, it’s<em> bullshit</em>.’ He paused, his voice strengthening. ‘Everything you like about girls, I like about boys. That’s it.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘That’s the only difference. I ain’t some kind of sex freak who wants to corrupt every man and child in town. I’m the same <em>fucking person</em>, Sid.' </p><p>He could hear the assurance as though he were still sat on the Okinawan beach. As though it were Merriell speaking not himself.</p><p>'This is <em>nothing</em> to be ashamed of.' He hissed. 'This is THEIR PROBLEM. NOT MINE.'</p><p>He paused again, desperately trying to draw air into his lungs.</p><p>
  <em>He just had to make him understand.</em>
</p><p>‘Now, if you’re just going to sit there and fucking insult me and punch me and talk shit, then I’m leaving. No amount of you telling me that is wrong is gonna change anything. If you honestly want to know, want <em>to talk,</em> we can talk about it.’</p><p>Sid bowed his head, breathing shallowly, tears leaking from his eyes.</p><p>Eugene held his breath, he felt so desperately, painfully sick.</p><p>He waited for Sid to answer.</p><p>He waited a minute.</p><p>He waited five.</p><p>He waited ten.</p><p>When Sid finally spoke, the sound of his voice made Eugene flinch. It was almost deafening through the pregnant silence.</p><p>'You're...' He whispered, staring at his feet. 'You're fucking disgusting.'</p><p>
  <em>He couldn't make him understand.</em>
</p><p>'<em>Never,</em> come near me again, you <em>freak</em>.'</p><p>There was a single second as Eugene allowed the words to process. Silently, he nodded. Tears were thick in his eyes as he stood, pipe clutched between his teeth, bomber jacket tightly in his grasp. He willed one foot in front of the other as he wordlessly walked away from the one man he felt he could depend on for anything.</p><p>
  <em>He’d been wrong.</em>
</p><p>Sid was long in the distance when Eugene's legs collapsed beneath him. He sank to his knees in the shrubbery, opening his mouth to vomit against the grass. After several moments he rolled away, curling over on himself before he began to weep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Controversial opinion - I never took to Sid...</p><p>Thank you so much for reading!</p><p>I'd love to know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm sorry this chapter has taken a little longer to get out. It's a hefty one so settle in, it's quite the read. </p><p>I was going to split it into two yet I felt the final part of Eugene's story needed telling all as one as it is a harrowing read.</p><p>T/W: This chapter contains an attempted suicide.</p><p>If this is in any way triggering, please do not read. I will encompass a short summation of the chapter in the end notes at the bottom of the page. </p><p>The passage is separated by two-page splits - if you wish to skip the scene it can be distinguished that way.</p><p>Additionally, it contains homophobic languages, attitude and descriptive sexual encounters. It also references war and Nazi concentration camps.</p><p>As ever, thank you so much for the support you're giving the story - I hope this doesn't let down.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was nightfall when Eugene stumbled through the front door, his head cloudy from the copious amount of alcohol he had consumed. He tripped over the threshold, stumbling into the hall as he swung from the doorknob. </p><p>With baited breathed, he cast a terse glance towards the parlour, fully expecting the sheriff to be sat by the fireplace, handcuffs ready for his detainment.</p><p>Because Eugene Sledge was a Queer; everyone might as well know. <em>They would do soon.</em></p><p>'Eugene, is that you?' His Mother's anxious voice called.</p><p>He steadied himself, raising his unsteady gaze to the landing above him. His Mother stood by the bannister, clutching her housecoat around her shoulders with a terse expression on her face. </p><p>'I'm... <em>urp</em>... here.' Eugene responded, with a wave, before almost spilling the contents of his stomach over the area rug. He gazed down at it; unsteadily. <em>Deacon's rug.</em></p><p>'Edward, he's home!'</p><p>She came hurrying down the stairs as Eugene stumbled against the french doors of the parlour.</p><p>'Look at the state of you!' She admonished, with a disapproving glare. She placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Where on earth have you been?!' </p><p>'Draggin'... the family's name further through the mud.' He responded, sloppily. He smirked to himself as he swung off the door handle, his legs unsteady beneath him. 'Mrs. Mary Frank Sledge... M... Mobile's fav... favourite <em>WASP -</em> social climbin', busybody...' He chuckled to himself. 'Think y'know everything but ya don't know anythin'.'</p><p>His Father appeared at the top of the stairs, hurrying down to join them. </p><p>'<em>Oop.</em>' Eugene pointed to him, grinning bemusedly. '<em>Dr.</em> Edward Simmons Sledge Senior, fixin' the South's most fucked up war veteran's since 1918... 'c'ept when the most fucked up in town is his screw loose bed-pissin' son.'</p><p>'Eugene, do not use language like that in front of your Mother!' He admonished, fixing him with a furious gaze. 'God, you're drunk as a Bow-Dow.'</p><p>Suddenly, he reached for his cheek. Incredulously, taking in his crimson skin. </p><p>'Have you been fighting?!' He asked.</p><p>'Naw.' Eugene responded, shaking his head as he swayed against the glass door. 'Sid just punched me in the face.'</p><p>His Mother let out an appalled cry. 'Why?!' She demanded, horror-stricken. 'What did you do?!'</p><p>He let out a small laugh. 'Same thing I always do, Mother.' He answered, with a resigned smile. 'Ruin everythin'.'</p><p>'Mary, get him some water.' His Father directed, taking him by the elbow. 'You need to sleep this off.' He admonished. 'We will discuss this in the morning.'</p><p>Eugene let out a disparaging bark of laughter, yet allowed himself to be steered in the direction of the stairs.</p><p>'Why?' He slurred. 'You done ignorin' me, now?' He asked. 'You gonna tell me what I done?' </p><p>His Father huffed a sigh, helping him up each step as he slumped over the bannister. Each movement a concerted effort for his inebriated body.</p><p>'We will discuss this in the morning, Eugene.' He repeated. 'Before you make a fool of yourself.'</p><p>Eugene laughed. 'You let me down, Pop.' He stated, letting out a grunt of exertion as they reached three-quarters of the way up the stairs. </p><p>'How so?' He asked, stiffly. </p><p>Eugene stilled, facing him as he swayed against the bannister. He took in his Father's disappointed expression. </p><p>
  <em>He saw Merriell gazing at him beneath the driving rain. Bill screaming in the dirt. He saw the Okinawan woman dying in his arms. Ack-Ack's lifeless body.</em>
</p><p>'Because you let me go.' He answered, tears swelling in his eyes as he watched him lower his gaze. 'You <em>let me go.'  </em>He repeated, his voice cracking. 'And ain't no matter how much money you pay a Quack... or how much I <em>try to pretend </em>I ain't ever gonna be fixed... because no matter how much progress I make, the second something goes wrong they all come back.' </p><p>'Son, you need to sleep.' He repeated in a softer, yet equally authoritative tone. 'We'll talk about this in the morning. It'll all seem better in the morning.'</p><p>Eugene tittered, allowing himself to be drawn up to the landing.</p><p>'Naw, Pop.' He mumbled, as they reached the doorway of his bedroom. 'They gonna be here for me before mornin'.'</p><p>His Father span round to face him as though he had been electrocuted, the statement sending a visible jolt of terror through him. He grabbed him, suddenly. </p><p>'What?' He asked, his voice hysterical. 'Who'll be here?'</p><p>There was a pause as Eugene stumbled backwards. He cocked his head to one side as he surveyed him.</p><p>'Eugene, what happened with Sidney?!' He demanded, urgently. </p><p>He stumbled against his bedroom door, the churning sickening of realisation breaking through his drunken stupor.</p><p>He let out a stammered breath. 'You know, too... <em>don't you</em>?' He asked.</p><p>His Father stared at him with a horrified expression, before Eugene suddenly opened his mouth and vomited all over him.</p><hr/><p>Eugene awoke in the early hours of the morning, his head pounding, his throat raw, his mouth unbearable. Yet he didn't move - not even for the glass of that sat on his nightstand beside the pitcher of water. </p><p>Because the sickening feeling of his drenched sheets clinging to him was simply too excruciating to deal with.</p><p>He shut his eyes, tears leaking against his lids. </p><p>
  <em>Merriell's concerned gaze filled his vision as they sat shoulder to shoulder on an Okinawan beach. His bare chest bronzed from the burning sun, his shoulders reddened against the blistering heat. Eugene was learning every inch of that skin in a completely different way each day, it seemed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘You think this is anythin’ to be ‘shamed for?’ Merriell asked, pulling his face as he sucked on his cigarette. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene remained silent, his knees drawn to his chest.</em>
</p><p><em>He breathed a pained sigh beside him, flicking his ash away. ‘Talk t'me - are y‘shamed?’</em> </p><p>
  <em>Eugene embraced his legs, before resting his chin against his knee. 'I don’t know.’ He answered, quietly. </em>
</p><p><em>He closed his eyes, the sheer thought of Merriell quivering beneath him, naked, with sweat slickened skin, sending an immediate blush across his body. </em> <em>He braved a glance towards him, holding his gaze tersely as he lifted his face from his trousers, yet said nothing further.</em></p><p>
  <em>Merriell licked his lower lip, averting his eye line down to the burning cherry of his cigarette. </em>
</p><p><em>‘We can stop this.’ He stated, quietly. 'If ya want?' He stretched his legs out in front of him, before glancing back towards him. ‘No harm, no foul. Like it never…’</em> </p><p>
  <em>Panic swelled obnoxiously in Eugene's stomach at the sheer prospect. ‘No!’ He objected angrily, before the familiar sickening bile of self-hatred rose in his throat. ‘I… I don’t... I want this… but...' He lowered his face back to his knees. 'I don’t know what I want.' He confessed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A heavy silence descended.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Fancy growin' tits?'  He proposed, with a twitch of his eyebrow. 'Would make this thing a whole lot easier.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell smirked, huffing a bemused laugh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Would do if I could, Cher.' He mused. 'Sure would make you more confused though... cock <strong>and </strong>cans? How would that work?' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene clicked his tongue, glaring at him with an irritable affection. 'Ass.' He muttered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell leant back on his elbows. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'No shame in not knowin' what you want.’ He stated, inhaling on his cigarette. ‘No shame in wantin' what you want... you're gonna be confused. You’re unlearnin’ ev’rythin’ you’ve ever learned.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene didn't move, keeping his face pressed against his knees. ‘What was it like for you?’ He asked, picking at the worn fabric of his dungarees with his teeth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell blew out a cloud of smoke, gazing out at the sealine. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘I was a lot younger’n you.’ He responded, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He spat into the sand beside him. ‘Fourteen, fifteen maybe.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene glanced at him. <strong>A kid.</strong></em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Had Essie to think of too.’ His face twitched, with an untold regret. 'But after she were gone...  ain't no contest... it was just fun... but... I ain’t...' He trailed off, choosing his words carefully. 'I never had values like you, ain’t never been to church none, never been taught ‘bout right ‘n wrong so… I wasn’t worried about hell or nothin’ just ‘bout bein’ caught.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looked up at Eugene.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘When y'break down that first barrier it’s like a flood gate. Everythin’ you knew, ‘s’over. You become a man, a <strong>real</strong> one, thinkin’ for y’self, doin’ for y’self, you choose y'own path – you’re a Queer now, ain’t no teachin’ from your Daddy matter no more.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene lowered his gaze back to his knees. ‘I’m a Queer.’ He whispered quietly into the fabric of his dungarees as he tested the words out. ‘Eugene Sledge is a… Queer.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Beside him, Merriell snorted. ‘Gene, I had that all figured first time you ain't had no problem with me suckin’ y'dick.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene shoved his shoulder, irritably. </em>
</p><p><em>‘Shut up!’ He objected, his chest beginning to mottle with embarrassment. ‘I’m goin’ through a <strong>lot</strong> here.’</em> </p><p>
  <em>‘Yeah, well…’ Merriell butted his shoulder against him, with a smirk. ‘One thing that is different… y’ain’t by your lonesome like I was.’</em>
</p><p><em>‘Is that your way of saying we’re in this together?’ He murmured, glancing towards him, his own smile playing at his lips.</em> </p><p>
  <em>Merriell kissed his teeth. ‘Somethin’ like that.’ He responded, with a nonchalant shrug.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Merriell Shelton, how very domesticated of you.’ He stated, with a grin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He clicked his tongue, irritably. ‘I will leave you sat here on your own with the damn land crabs.’ He warned, with a roll of his eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene smiled, warmly. The mildest edge alleviated from his bone-deep terror. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘No, you won’t.’</em>
</p><p>His bedroom door clicked open a long while after he had first woken up. Eugene presumed it must have been at least mid-morning by then, not that he cared.</p><p>'Eugene?' His Father's hesitant voice filled the room. 'Are you awake?'</p><p>'Yes.' He answered, quietly, keeping his face tucked beneath his covers, his tear-soaked pillow clinging soggily against his cheek.</p><p>'How are you feeling?' He asked, tentatively.</p><p>'Fine.' He replied, before braving a glance towards him.</p><p>He watched his Father frown at him, as though he wanted to say something. He opened his mouth, inhaling deeply as he pondered his topic for discussion. Suddenly, he paused sniffing at the air. </p><p>Eugene blanched, curling in on himself with mortification as he averted his gaze back to his pillow. He couldn't bear to watch him fully make the connection.</p><p>'Oh, Eugene.' His Father murmured, with a sigh.</p><p>Hot tears ran freshly from the end of his nose.</p><p>'What happened yesterday?' He answered, hesitantly.</p><p>Eugene let out a pained cry from his throat, shaking his head furiously. The sickening suffocation suddenly rearising in his chest. <em>He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this.</em></p><p>'Get a shower - get dressed and come down to my office, we need to talk.' His Father pressed.</p><p>He lay there unresponsively, feeling his gaze pressing against him. <em>He couldn't do this. </em></p><p>He had been playing their conversation over in his mind since first waking up. His Father's panic-stricken expression, <em>'Eugene, what happened with Sidney?'</em></p><p>'Eugene.' </p><p>He glanced up at the sound of his name to see him stood in the doorway, his lips pursed. </p><p>'If you don't get out of that bed, I will <em>drag</em> you out.'</p><p>
  <em>He knows.</em>
</p><p>He winced at the threat. His Father had always been his greatest ally at home; kind to him - especially since he had returned from the war. He was the one who insisted to his Mother that he be allowed to remain in his room for days on end over that summer, the one who fought so hard to get him into the college, the one who encouraged him to study Biology.</p><p>
  <em>College. Hell, that seemed a million years away. He wasn't going back to college, he was going to prison. </em>
</p><p>Yet such kindness was lacking in this conversation, it was only in its absence that Eugene realised how much he depended on it. Taking a breath, mutely, he nodded. He had little left, but he had enough dignity remaining to not be yanked out of his urine-soaked sheets by his ageing Father.</p><p>'I'll be down.' He whispered, quietly.</p><p>Without another word, he turned and left the room, pulling the door closed behind himself. Eugene flinched as it shut.</p><p>It was an hour before he appeared at the top of the stairs, having managed to stumble towards the shower, stand beneath its tepid stream for five minutes before crawling into the first clothes he could lay his hands on from his drawers. </p><p>He heard his Mother speaking with Annie in the dining room, yet he made no attempts to garner her attention. Instead, he slunk through to the study elusively. </p><p>With a leadened hand, he knocked.</p><p>There was a moment of pregnant silence before the reply came.</p><p>'Come in.' His Father called out.</p><p>Eugene obliged, pushing open the heavy wooden door. He was immediately greeted by the familiar scent of antiseptic and aniseed. This room had once been a source of comfort, it had felt grown up to be allowed in when he was a child. Now, it felt like a death sentence.</p><p>'Sit down, Eugene.' He directed, gesturing to the empty chair on the opposite side of his large mahogany desk. Eugene couldn't fail to notice the way he refused to make eye contact.</p><p>Obediently, he lowered himself into the seat, yet made no effort to initiate conversation. Nor did his Father.</p><p>After a minute, the thundering of his pounding heart proved too much. The sickening twisting of his gut rendering him a quivering mess. He cleared his throat.</p><p>'C... can I smoke?' He asked, his voice sounding alien as it came from his mouth.</p><p>His Father gave a nod.</p><p>'If you wish.' He responded, stiffly, reaching into his drawer and withdrawing the ashtray he stored for patients. He placed it on the desk in front of Eugene.</p><p>He swallowed; surveying the white porcelain bowl, pondering when he too had become his Father's patient. With trembling hands he reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew the packet of cigarettes he had picked up in town the day before. He'd thrown his pipe to the curb in desolation; unable to bear the thought of taking the time to pack it. Unwilling to ever attempt the task again.</p><p>He withdrew a cigarette from the cardboard, lifting it to his mouth. <em>Unfiltered lucky strikes because... why the fuck not?</em></p><p>Igniting his lighter he lit it and inhaled. Smoke filled his lungs, calming his erratic heart rate for only a moment before intensifying his violent urge to be sick. He gagged at the taste, letting out a cough as he grew used to the pungent aroma. Stubbornly, he took another drag.</p><p>A fraught silence descended as neither of them spoke for a while, the room so silent that the only audible noise was the ticking of the clock of the mantle and the low burning of Eugene's cigarette as he smoked.</p><p>After several minutes, his Father swallowed audibly.</p><p>'Eugene, who’s Jack Greer?’ He asked, quietly.</p><p>Instantly, Eugene's stomach instantly fell away from his body.</p><p>
  <em>Whatever he had been expecting his Father's accusation to be; it had not been that. </em>
</p><p>His heart thundered in his ears, he felt violently sick, his temperature soared, his vision went hazy and he immediately felt the need to collapse. He swallowed against the agonising bile in the back of his throat, sweat pricking the collar of his shirt.</p><p>‘Wh…’ He stammered, suddenly losing the ability to form any cohesive sound with his tongue. ‘He’s… he’s… he’s a friend... from college.’ </p><p>He averted his gaze to the varnished wooden floorboards, there was a loose nail sticking out near this chair leg. He had to avoid it, he would tear his sock on that.</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t know, keep calm, he can’t possibly know. </em>
</p><p>‘I got a call from his father a few weeks back.’ His Father continued.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>‘He ain’t been too well.’ Eugene mumbled, quickly. ‘He dropped outta school.’</p><p>‘I know.’ Came the measured reply. ‘I know why, too.’ He paused. ‘Do you?’</p><p>He swallowed, taking another mouthful of his cigarette.</p><p>‘He was a German POW.’ He answered, noticing how his hands shook. He pressed them into his lap. ‘They sent him to... to a camp, place called Belsen. He was never too right in the head. 'cos... 'cos of it.’</p><p>
  <em>That was fucking low, you coward.</em>
</p><p>‘That’s more or less what his Father said.’ He agreed.</p><p>
  <em>See, it’s fine.</em>
</p><p>‘Eugene, look at me when I’m talking to you!’ He snapped suddenly, his voice shifting from resolute indifference to sheer fury.</p><p>
  <em>He knows.</em>
</p><p>Slowly, Eugene forced himself to raise his gaze, aware that his entire body was trembling.</p><p>‘Stop. <em>Lying</em>.’ He hissed, venomously. ‘What happened with you and Jack Greer?’</p><p>Eugene gaped at him, helplessly.</p><p>Jack Greer had dormed in the same student house during their first year of college. His room was further down the hall.</p><p>He had been an Infantry Gunner and was in the eighth arriving vessel on the D-Day Landings - a hero. Yet that hadn't saved him from his fate.</p><p>Eugene had found him to simply be easy to talk to, at first. Kind, empathic, a confidant of sorts.</p><p>He had confessed he saw a psychiatrist. Jack revealed he did too.</p><p>They had talked lightly about the war; easy stories at first. Funnies about the clowns of their platoons, reminiscing about close shaves and their shared hatred of tinned food.</p><p>Then their talk had turned to the topic of their nightmares. Eugene had confessed how loud the screaming still was, how hot showers burnt, how a soft mattress felt like nails against his back, how the sound of a car backfiring flew him into a rage. Jack hadn't looked at him like he had been something to pity; he had understood.</p><p>Eugene had listened as Jack spoke about life after his detainment by the Nazis and about life in the camp. The agony of hunger, the helplessness of his captivity, the exhaustion of his slave labour. The degradation, the dehumanisation and the torment that had surrounded him each day. It made Eugene acknowledge his own privilege. There had been men who had had it so much worse than himself.</p><p>He had had the grace of the brotherhood of his platoon, surrounded by his friends through each tribulation. Jack hadn’t.</p><p>Eugene couldn't pinpoint the moment when it became something more.</p><p>All he knew was if he closed his eyes when Jack kissed him that he could pretend, just for a moment, that everything was different. Despite the way their mouths had never quite fit right - their teeth always seeming to brush clumsily, Jack's lips always feeling far too soft, how his moustache tickled uncomfortably against his skin far worse than thick stubble ever had.</p><p>Yet, if he tried hard enough, he could ignore the differences. He could screw his eyes shut and suddenly it was like they were the same person.</p><p>No, if he let his mind wander far enough, it was the two of them. Holed up in a cosy little cabin somewhere far away from prying eyes. Where Merriell went out to work and Eugene stayed and tended the small patch of land they had outback, feeding the chickens, tending the vegetable patch, cooking for them and keeping the house.</p><p><em>Some fucked up sense of domesticity, that was theirs and only theirs. </em>Exactly like Merriell had promised it would be.</p><p>Or, how if he raised his gaze to the ceiling, the unbearable heat of the mouth that sat between his legs could have belonged to someone else entirely. How, if he had been able to form a coherent sentence it would have been to muse how this had been the only way he had known how to get him to shut up. </p><p>He often made the mistake of glancing down, expecting the dark-featured face he knew so well to be looking back. It never failed to gut him each time a blond head with kind eyes stared up, instead. Despite his best efforts, he could never stop the tears. </p><p>Jack Greer had been a distraction and that was so brutally unfair to him, Eugene knew that. He knew but he found he simply couldn't care. The man had been to hell and back and deserved only kindness; yet Eugene didn't know how to be kind anymore.</p><p>Their interlude had never developed further than heavy petting; Eugene hadn’t wanted it to. Hadn't been able to. Not since collapsing into a humiliating flood of tears as he curled naked against his headboard, drawing into himself to shield his body from Jack's concerned expression. He couldn't go <em>there. </em>Not with anybody else.</p><p>He hadn't been sure whether or not he was a homosexual since returning from China. He thought perhaps it was just for Merriell, that he loved him and him alone. But Jack had proven that wasn't the case.</p><p>He liked men, it was that simple.</p><p>In fact, the more he thought about it, it had started long before the Marines.</p><p>But Merriell had been the only one he had loved; he knew that for certain. In fact, he was still so cripplingly in love with him that the thought of doing <em>that </em>with anyone else had just been wrong. It felt like a violation.</p><p>Their dalliance had started to dwindle out, after that.</p><p>Jack was looking for something more and shortly before the end of the summer semester, Eugene confessed he wasn’t going to find that with him. He didn't know whether Jack had believed his pretence that the risk of being a homosexual was just far too much for him to bear. Either way, that had been the last time he had ever seen him.</p><p>When they returned at the start of the year, Jack’s room remained empty. He was gone, with no explanation and no forwarding address. </p><p>
  <em>And this was why.</em>
</p><p>Eugene gaped, his mouth attempting to form words. To form anything, some kind of denial, some kind of defence - <em>anything.</em></p><p>His Father surveyed him scrupulously.</p><p>‘Because William Greer has called me, Eugene...' He continued. '... to say that the family had had Jack admitted to a psychiatric unit because he had a breakdown over summer and confessed he’s been in<em> multiple</em> homosexual relationships.’</p><p>He took a breath, with such a pained expression on his face that Eugene had no choice but to look away again.</p><p>'With men, including you.'</p><p>Eugene's face contorted in agony, repulsion with himself rippling throughout his body. He wanted to curl up in a corner and just combust.</p><p>‘But if you tell me.' His Father continued, his voice sounding desperate. 'If you tell me nothing happened, I will believe you. Like you said the boy is very ill, this... these... <em>ravings </em>are just that. Whatever happened with Sidney yesterday was just a misunderstanding...' He trailed off. 'So Eugene I’m going to ask you one more time… <em>what…</em> <em>happened</em>?’</p><p>He looked up one final time to see him staring back, imploringly.</p><p>He was begging; Eugene knew that. He didn't want it to be true; it couldn't possibly be true. <em>Not his son. Not his boy. <br/></em></p><p>He lowered his gaze. Sid was right; he was an abomination. He was everything that was wrong with the world. This was all his fault.</p><p>He was a disgusting, terrible person.</p><p>He was an abomination because he couldn't lie.</p><p>Not about this. Not even for his Father.</p><p>'Don't ask me.' He breathed, tears thick in his eyes as he kept his gaze firmly on his knees. 'D... don't ask me... you know what happened. We can say it didn't... but it did; <em>you know it did</em>.'</p><p>He felt his Father utter a pained gasp and he winced at the sound, for several moments the admission sat flatly over the atmosphere.</p><p>'Eugene...' He sounded desolate.</p><p>'What are you going to do?' He whispered, quietly, looking intently towards his half-burnt out cigarette between his fingers. 'You gonna send me to the nut house? Like Jack's folks did.' </p><p>'Eugene.'</p><p>'Gonna report me?' He pressed. 'Send me to jail? Ten years hard labour?' He licked his lower lip. 'Cos Sid knows.' He added. 'So it's only gonna be so long before the lynch mob arrive for the <em>town's queer</em>.' His voice cracked. 'You <em>hate me,</em> Pop?' He asked, his gaze twitched back to his Father who was staring at him with an unreadable expression. Staring at him as though he were a stranger.</p><p>'Eugene.' He repeated, desperately.</p><p>'Do I disgust you?' He pressed, wiping his tears, suddenly finding himself brave enough to look him in the eye. 'Because I disgust myself.'</p><p>He lifted his cigarette to his lips, taking one final wet drag before stubbing it out in the ash tray.</p><p>'So what now... You gonna cast me out? You gonna...' He trailed off, the final prospect simply too unbearable to verbalise. 'You gonna tell Mother and Eddie?'</p><p>To his horror, his Father gave a pained choke opposite him, crumpling over on himself as he began to weep, shielding his face with his hands, his shoulders quivering with heartbreak.</p><p>Eugene sat there for a while, watching the piteous scene before him. Wishing so desperately that he had died in the muddy fields of Okinawa before any of this had ever happened.</p><p>He was surprised by the calmness that washed over him.</p><p>Without a word he rose to his feet, leaving his smouldering cigarette in the ashtray.</p><p>'I'll sort it, Papa.' He whispered, quietly. 'Don't worry, we don't have to tell anybody.'</p><p>Without a further word, he turned and left the room.</p><hr/>
<hr/><p>Eugene did not emerge from his bedroom again that day. Instead, he lay curled against his bare mattress, after having balled his soiled sheets into the corner of the room. He lay with his knees clutched to his chest, his pillow drenched beneath his grasp.</p><p>His Mother had knocked on the door several hours earlier, gracefully having the foresight not to enter. His Father mustn't have broken the news to her yet. Her voice was distant as she spoke, something about dinner downstairs and something about Edward. He didn't have the capacity to listen.</p><p>It was only when she uttered the words <em>'Your Father and I are having dinner at the Wheeler's'</em> that his ears pricked up.</p><p>'OK.' He managed, tears leaking down his tender, swollen cheeks.</p><p>Yet despite how weak he felt, his resolution strong. The decision set firmly in place.</p><p>His face had long dried and his sobs long passed when he heard the front door shut behind his parents. Simply having nothing left in him to cry out.</p><p>He was so very tired. He was tired of pretending, he was tired of the ridicule, he was tired of having to sit straight lipped when someone made a slur. Having so many secrets and simply no one to share them with. He was just so very tired.</p><p>So tired that all he had the energy to do was wait. </p><p>He waited until the Sheriff pulled up outside to whisk him away to jail.</p><p>He waited until the mob arrived to lynch him to a tree.</p><p>He waited until Merriell pounded on the front door to rescue him from this nightmare. </p><p>Yet it was in vain; for nobody seemed to be coming for him. Nobody at all.</p><p>Nobody to punish him. Nobody to help him. Nobody to stop him. </p><p>The house was utterly silent as Eugene wandered from his bedroom. An eerie silence.</p><p>His footfall echoed around the expanse of the large house. The sound of the grandfather clock in the hall ticked obstinately - as it had done since he was a boy.</p><p>The thundering of his heart in his chest and his laboured breathing filled Eugene’s ears as he moved about the upstairs rooms in a trance of haggard resignation, bidding each one in a senseless farewell until he reached the landing.</p><p>He took the stairs slowly, pressing each socked foot against the carpeted runner as he descended into the hall.</p><p>He paused at the bottom, gazing intently at the rug that had once belonged to Deacon.</p><p>He sank to his knees, running his palms along the woven fabric until the friction burnt the pads of his fingertips. He lifted his hands to his nose and inhaled. The rug didn’t hold the warmth of Deacon’s body, anymore.</p><p>That was the thing about death; it eradicated everything – <em>the good and the bad. </em>There wasn’t the option to pick and choose what was left behind.</p><p>Life was never that kind.</p><p>Eugene struggled back to his feet, pressing his hand to the brass handle of the french doors leading into the parlour. It was cold to the touch.</p><p>The room smelt like his Mother’s Potpourri as he entered. He glanced to the fireplace, riveted by the memories of his childhood that were encapsulated at its hearth.</p><p>He had screamed and run around the room at five years old on Christmas morning when he’d torn the paper from the shiny red fire engine pedal car, that his parents had assured him Santa Clause would simply be unable to deliver.</p><p>His Father had cradled him in his arms as he tried to sleep at seven, wrapped tightly in the patchwork blanket his Mother had sewn. His chest had racked with Pneumonia following a severe bout of flu, rendering him unable to sleep lying down. It had been just one of the seemingly never-ending illnesses of his childhood, yet his parents had nursed him through each one.</p><p>He had rolled around on the floor with his brand new puppy at ten, calling his name and rewarding him with chunks of chicken and delighted belly rubs as he responded to each new command.</p><p>He had sat by his Mother's side, holding her hand as she wept when his Grandma had died. <em>She loved you so, </em>she had told him. He had often wondered if that was her way of telling him that she did too.</p><p>He had wrestled his brother into a headlock when he cheated at Snakes and Ladders on Board Game night at thirteen, emboldened by the three-inch growth spurt he had undergone in the previous Fall. He was been merrily bested when his head cracked against the log rack, yet he considered the event a turning point of his manhood. Despite the fact he sat crying as his Father dressed the wound.</p><p>His Mother had taught him to dance on the rug before his Freshman prom. His brother heckled his performance but loaned him his favourite pocket square all the same. He had even redone his hair, as apparently the pomade combover he had styled himself rendered him looking like <em>a sacrificial virgin</em>.</p><p>He had kept watch as Edward had picked the lock on the liquor cabinet on New Year's Eve, giggling hysterically as they tore from the room. For at the ripe ages of fifteen and eighteen, they had resolved themselves to be men now and were determined to celebrate accordingly.</p><p>His Father had placed a hand on his shoulder the first time he had diagnosed him with a heart murmur, squeezing him assuringly - <em>you are not alone</em>.</p><p>His Mother had fastened his tie before he left to join the Marines, smoothing down his blazer and kissing his cheek before pulling him into a tight embrace - <em>come home to me, my boy</em>.</p><p>There had been a chink of an ashtray beside him the night he had returned from the war. As he sat uncomfortably in the armchair, struggling with the feeling of civvies against for the first time in three years. Struggling from the insurmountable level of untold desolation that sat in his chest as he glanced to the window every few minutes, positive that Merriell would be making an appearance at any moment to rescue him.</p><p>He hadn't, yet the ability to smoke indoors had stabilised him enough to make it through that first night. His Father had done that for him despite his hatred of tobacco. <em>Just because he knew how much Eugene needed it.</em></p><p>He had been loved in this room. </p><p>They had loved him fiercely, unwaveringly and resolutely. Despite any of his indiscretions, despite the fact that had never been verbalised. They had loved him and he had loved them too.</p><p>So very much.</p><p>But everything was different now. They wouldn’t love him if they knew the truth. His Father didn't love him, his Father was ashamed of him. </p><p>That didn't matter to Eugene, though. For he still loved them, regardless. Loved them enough for all of them.</p><p>It was <em>for them</em> that he had to do this.<em> To spare them the shame.</em></p><p>He bit down on the skin of his lower lip as he passed through the parlour to his Father’s study.</p><p>It was odd going inside without permission, he almost wanted to knock despite the knowledge it was empty.</p><p>The warming scent of mahogany of his desk and the aniseed of his medicine counter filled his nostrils. <em>The desolation on his face at the realisation that his son was a monster; the sound of his agonised tears.</em></p><p>He breathed it in, a tightness growing in his chest. Hesitantly, he crept toward the large desk in the middle of the room and pressed the folded letter into the centre.</p><p><em>‘Father</em>’ was adorned on the envelope.</p><p>It had taken him hours to write despite being no longer than six lines. Yet, it contained enough - the why and the apology. <em>Enough.</em></p><p>He straightened the letter so it lay neatly in front of his Father’s eyeline. It would be the first thing he saw when he sat down.</p><p>He gazed round the room, his mind flicking back to their meeting. Suddenly he glanced to the floor, before reaching across the large desk for his Father's heavy wooden nameplate: <em>Dr E. S. Sledge. </em></p><p>He moved around the empty chair he had occupied. Crouching onto the floor as he searched for the offensive nail that posed a risk to his Father's socks; not that he ever walked around in stockinged feet. Yet, he would never have the opportunity to tell him about the nail and he didn't want to risk the chance. A torn sock could ruin a man's day.</p><p>He hammered it down until the offensive tack lay flush against the floorboard. He brushed his foot over the indent, resolved that it no longer posed a threat. He reached to replace the nameplate neatly where it had lain, before heading for the door, shutting it behind himself.</p><p>He crossed the parlour and closed the French doors.</p><p>He stepped over Deacon’s mat and stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs.</p><p>Tears welled in his eyes.</p><p>He glanced through to the dining room, taking in the soft yellow walls and the ticking of the Grandfather clock.</p><p>Robotically, his hand moved to the bannister and he began the ascent.</p><p><em>'Don’t!' </em>A voice screamed out in his head.</p><p>The same angry, aggrieved voice that had stopped him clawing teeth from dead bodies.</p><p>
  <em>'GENE!'</em>
</p><p>The same terrified cry of his name as he had almost exploded around a grenade.</p><p>Eugene paused at the top of the stairs, glaring towards the doorway of his bedroom. If his nightmares could so easily manifest into reality, surely his dreams could, too?</p><p>‘C’mon.’ He hissed, desperately willing Merriell to appear. ‘Show up. Show up and I won’t.’</p><p>Yet the doorway remained empty.</p><p>With the smallest huff of a laugh, he closed his eyes for just a moment. Slowly, he moved towards his brother’s deserted bedroom.</p><p>His old bed stood in the middle of the room. He still remembered the injustice of him being gifted his parents' cast-off Queen bed when they had replaced their furniture.</p><p>
  <em>Like it had ever mattered.</em>
</p><p>Eugene navigated around the footboard, knowing exactly the item he was looking for. He found it with ease. The box holding his Grandfather’s Lugar still sat on the bookshelf.</p><p><em>He had shot his first bullet with this</em>, he mused, withdrawing the heavy gun from its casing.</p><p>
  <em>He would also shoot his last.</em>
</p><p>The sun was sinking low on the horizon as he sat on the wooden floor, turning the gun over and over in his hands.</p><p>His tear tracks had grown sticky down his cheeks. He felt sick, he felt tired. He didn't quite know what to do; <em>he had never shot himself before</em>.</p><p>Grey eyes bored into the back of his head, angrily.</p><p>Eugene fought against every urge to turn around, to chance seeing him one last time. Yet he kept facing forward, knowing once he looked towards the door, he would find there to be no eyes there, at all. Yet another reminder of how utterly alone he was.</p><p>Sid’s disgusted face filled his vision.</p><p>
  <em>‘I ain’t the fuckin' abomination.’</em>
</p><p>He bowed his head, floundering in his own self-hatred.</p><p><em>‘YES, YOU FUCKING ARE, BECAUSE IF YOU’RE NOT WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?!’</em> </p><p>He barely noticed the gun cock in his hand, the contents of his letter, instead, filling his head.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Father.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>The seat opposite him sat empty.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I have shot myself in Edward’s bedroom. Do not let Mother go up.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>His Father's desolate sobs sounded in his ears.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I am so terribly sorry for the inconvenience and difficulties I have caused since my return. I did not intend for any of it to be as such.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>The grenade exploded before his eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I tried so very hard not to be what I am. I intended for the longest time for it not to impact my life and most certainly for it never to hinder yours.</em></strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Martha screamed beneath him as he tackled her to the dirt in her pretty white frock.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>I am broken and despite my greatest efforts; I cannot be fixed. </strong> </em>
</p><p><em>Ack-Ack glared at him with unseeing eyes.</em> </p><p>
  <em><strong>I appear to have lost myself, along my path, and I cannot progress any further with such shame hanging over myself and our family.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell stared at him through the driving rain, eyes caught in a harrowing gaze before he suddenly launched towards him pressing their lips together after a years’ worth of yearning.</em>
</p><p><em><strong>Please apologise to Mother and Edward on my behalf.</strong> </em> </p><p>He didn’t know when he pressed the gun to his temple.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I love you all, very much.</em> </strong>
</p><p>He watched the sun hanging heavy in the sky as it began to sink. Crimson rays drifted in through the window, landing warmly against his skin.</p><p>His parents would be back soon.</p><p>He thought of the boy who had spent a happy childhood in this house, the boy who had left for boot camp. <em>How he had failed him.</em></p><p>Eugene's lip wobbled and his chest heaved as the heavy metal nuzzle of the handgun sat coldly against his skin.</p><p>He thought he would be frightened when the time came. Terrified, conflicted as he battled with himself. <em>He wasn’t.</em></p><p>The exhaustion he had successfully kept at bay for the best part of eighteen months had finally won its never-ending battle.</p><p>
  <em>There was no way out from this.</em>
</p><p>He would bring shame to his family, never mind the shame to himself. <em>This was the kindest thing he could do for them.</em></p><p>Sid would have told Mary as soon as he got home. Mary would have subsequently rung her Mother and it would have spread like wildfire from there. <em>It would just be a matter of time. </em></p><p>Maybe Sid would have called a few friends of his own. Maybe they were on the way for him right now.</p><p>People would be less likely to spew their vitriol if he was dead;<em> especially to his family.</em></p><p>He let out a choked out sob of anguish.</p><p>
  <em>His family.</em>
</p><p>The thought of his brother’s disgusted face.</p><p>The venom spilling from his Mother's mouth.</p><p>The reality of his Father's tears.</p><p>The inevitable banishment from his family home.</p><p>He had nothing left, anymore.</p><p>This had been why Merriell had left; to save him from a lifetime of social degradation.</p><p>All he had had to do was move on. Yet he hadn’t been strong enough to do that; hadn't been strong enough to hide any of it. <em>Even Merriell would be ashamed.</em></p><p>He was entirely alone. Pitifully, indubitably, desolately alone. With no future, no escape, no alternative. Nothing.</p><p>Just a house full of memories, a broken spirit and a gun in his hand.</p><p>He had felt lonely every single day since his return. No. Lonely was the wrong word. He felt so irrevocably, pitifully and desolately isolated.</p><p>He could be in a room full of friends, surrounded by his loved ones and it would make no difference. He may as well be curled beneath his desk with his slicker over his head as he attempted to muffle the screams inside his mind. No amount of therapy would change that. Because the war hadn't been the whole problem. </p><p>He was a faggot. An unwanted, unloved, unworthy faggot. </p><p>Distantly, he thought he heard the door.</p><p>Yet Sid's disgusted face passing through his mind one final time, drew him back into his own stupor. The look of sheer repulsion across his features made him let out a low cry, tears leaking down his cheeks.</p><p>The truth had been freeing for a moment. Just a moment. To hold it in any longer would have driven him insane.</p><p>His eyes sank closed as he pondered perhaps whether he had been insane, all along.</p><p>Sid's face was replaced. Gazing back at him were the kind eyes that only he had grown to know so well. </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Your son, Eugene.</em> </strong>
</p><p>With his heartbeat pounding above over anything else in his ears, gently, he pulled the trigger.</p><hr/>
<hr/>
<hr/><p>The crack of a bullet flying through the air was dulled by Eugene hitting the floor with a sharp thud, his hand throbbed painfully as the gun clattered to the floor. The sound of metal suddenly skittered across the wooden floor. A heavy weight pinned him against the floorboards.</p><p>He let out a groan. His head ached and his brain span.</p><p>
  <em>Was he dead?</em>
</p><p>A pair of hands suddenly encircled him, a strangled gasp echoed in his ear.</p><p>‘What <em>the fuck </em>do you think you're doing?!'</p><p>Edward's agonised voice seemed to reverberate around the room.</p><p><em>No.</em> </p><p>Eugene let out a wrenching sob. Shaking his head, furiously.</p><p>
  <em>No!</em>
</p><p>His eyes flew open and he grappled against the grip on him, suddenly enraged. Glancing around the room, wildly, he located the gun lay smoking across the floor several feet away, its bullet god knows where. All he knew was that it was not inside him. He kicked out, trying to shove his brother away as he swore angrily at him.</p><p><em>‘</em>Stop it!<em>’</em> Edward admonished against his tirade, struggling to hold him down. 'Gene, <em>stop it</em>!'</p><p>He pressed more weight against him as they grappled, succeeding in forcing his arms to his side.</p><p>'Calm down - <em>it's OK!' </em></p><p>Eugene let out a pained cry.</p><p>‘NO!’ He gasped, choking against his tears. 'You <em>don't understand!' </em></p><p>
  <em>He couldn't understand. He couldn't know. He wouldn't understand.</em>
</p><p>Edward relinquished him for only a moment, long enough fling his arms around him, pinning his face into his shirt as he struggled.</p><p>‘<em>Make me</em> understand then!’ He begged, pressing his mouth against his hair. ‘Make me understand and we can sort it. We can sort <em>anything.’</em></p><p>Eugene collapsed, his resolve crumbling. Because despite everything, Edward still smelt like his big brother. He still smelt safe.</p><p>He wept, gripping the front of his shirt as he shook his head.</p><p>‘We can sort it.’ Edward repeated desperately, smoothing down his sticking up hair. ‘Anything in the world we can sort, Eugene. I will fix <em>anything </em>for you - I promise.’</p><p>‘You <em>can’t.</em>’ Eugene choked, shaking his head as he trembled in his grasp. He felt so powerless, so frightened that he was sure he was going to be sick.</p><p>‘I can.’ He repeated. ‘Ain’t nothing this bad… the war wasn’t so bad you’re gonna shoot yourself over it.’</p><p>Eugene let out a desolate sob.</p><p>‘It’s not the war.’ He gasped a lungful of thick air into his lungs feeling like he was about to pass out. ‘It ain’t the war everyone – everyone…’ He choked. ‘No one… I can’t tell…’ He collapsed, clutching his head in his hands. ‘I can’t…’</p><p>‘You can tell me <em>anything.</em>’ Edward insisted, desperately. ‘I’m your big brother, Eugene, there ain’t <em>nothing </em>you can’t tell me.’</p><p>‘Not this.’ He insisted. ‘There’s no way out from this.’</p><p>‘There’s<em> always </em>a way out.’ Edward rebuked, angrily. ‘What <em>this</em>?’ He demanded, gesturing furiously at the gun on the floor. ‘This is any kind of solution?’</p><p>Eugene wept, helpless to do anything else.</p><p>‘Do you have any idea what it would have been like to find you like that?' He hissed. 'You can tell me anything - Ain’t <em>nothing</em> in this world that you can’t tell me.’</p><p>‘You’ll hate me.’ Eugene gasped.</p><p>‘I won’t.’ Edward stated, shaking his head emphatically. ‘There is <em>nothing </em>that would make me hate you.’</p><p>‘This will.’</p><p>There was a silence.</p><p>‘What is it, Gene?’ Edward asked, hesitantly. ‘What? You in trouble?’</p><p>He nodded, unable to bear the words. He'd done it before and it had ended so terribly.</p><p>‘You... You hurt someone?' He struggled. 'A... a girl? You hurt a girl?’</p><p>He shook his head violently.</p><p>‘You killed someone? Hit ‘em with the car? Got in a fight?’</p><p>He shook again.</p><p>'Then what is this ba...' He paused, as though a light switch had gone off inside his mind.</p><p>A heavy, ominous silence fell between then.</p><p>‘You a Queer, Gene?’ He asked, quietly.</p><p>It was an agony unlike Eugene had ever felt as a sickening chill ran up his spine. His skin instantly flushed with desperation, sweat inched at his collar. He wanted to scream.</p><p>He doubled over on himself in a wordless response, his body heaving with sobs. Anguished, pitiful sobs of resignation. Above him, Edward's embrace slackened.</p><p>There was no turning back from this now. Sid, his Father and his brother in just over 24 hours. His darkest secret, that he had travelled to hell and back to protect, had been entirely in vain. This was out in the open now. It would be his undoing. </p><p>His three closest allies now detested him.</p><p>
  <em>Edward hates you. Edward will finish you off himself, never mind the lynch mob.</em>
</p><p>Good God, there weren't the words to verbalise how desperately he wished he had been successful. He'd tried to protect them, it had been the one last thing he could do. He'd even failed in that. </p><p>His brother’s voice shook when he eventually spoke.</p><p>‘Get up.’ He ordered, his grip relinquishing as he suddenly rose back to his feet.</p><p>Eugene cowered beneath him, before suddenly Edward yanked him up, dragging him towards the window.</p><p>He acquiesced, letting himself be manhandled.</p><p>
  <em>He's going to fucking throw you out. </em>
</p><p>‘Look!’ Edward demanded, ripping him by the scruff of his shirt into a standing position. ‘Look out the<em> fucking window!</em>’</p><p>Eugene did, barely able to squint for fear of the sight. He trembled, leaning heavily against his brother as his weakened legs failed him.</p><p>Beside him, Edward softened at the vulnerability.</p><p>‘What do you see?’ He asked, his voice cracking.</p><p>Eugene shook his head, mutely, unable to speak.</p><p>‘Eugene, I said what do you fuckin' see?!’ He repeated, more forcefully.</p><p>‘I don’t know!’ He answered, his voice cracking with hysteria. In truth, he didn't want to look. He was too much of a coward to see a lynch mob. But he would have done anything Edward asked of him at that moment; anything he could to make some kind of amends.</p><p>‘Do you see a hell-mouth?’ Edward demanded. ‘D’you see Dooms Day? God here to smite ya down yet? D’you see Martians? Nazis or Nips takin' over the world? No!’ He span Eugene round grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shaking him desperately. ‘You see the world fuckin' carrying on.’ Edward hissed, viciously.</p><p>With a twinge of his stomach, Eugene noticed he was crying. <em>Everyone always cried. The anger would come next.</em></p><p>'Same as it would've fuckin' carried on if you was lyin' dead right now with your brains over the floor.' Edward shook his head, incredulously. ‘You’re a fuckin' queer, so damn what? Doesn't stop me from lovin' you.'</p><p>Eugene let out a mewl like he'd been struck, reaching forward to grip onto his brother tightly. He felt winded.</p><p>'And if you think that blowin' your damn brains out is a better solution than comin' to me when you're in trouble then I’ve fuckin' failed you… because I know there ain’t nothing I couldn’t depend on you for. Queer or not - you're still my brother.’</p><p>Suddenly, his knees yielded beneath his weight. He crumpled, overwhelmed by the statement, sinking back to the floor as sobs wracked his body. His brother's acceptance proving to be too unbearable to consider. </p><p>Instantly, Edward followed him to the floor, pulling him back into his arms as he wept.</p><p>'We'll <em>sort it</em>.' He repeated, his voice wavering as his own tears sat heavily against his eyes. 'I love you - ain't nothing <em>ever gonna change that. </em>I promise - whatever's happened - we'll sort it!' He gasped, rubbing Eugene's back in firm circles. 'You've just gotta talk to me.' </p><p>Eugene found it surprising how easily the entire tale came to him. Then again, he had spent the best part of two years living solely within its memory.</p><p>His brother sat in silence as he spoke.</p><p>Regaling not just the tale of Merriell but of the war itself. From Pavuvu, to Peleliu, to Okinawa, to China, to waking up on that fucking train, to each agonising moment he had spent ever since, the arc culminating in the confrontation with Sid and his Father.</p><p>After he had finished, Edward let out a low breath. ‘Why didn't you come to me?’ He asked, quietly. </p><p>Eugene sniffed thickly, pitifully wiping at his tender, swollen eyes with the cuff of his shirt. 'Didn't think you'd want to know.' He answered. 'Figured you'd label me a freak - shop me for it... worse...' </p><p>He clicked his tongue, irritably. 'Fuck me, you always been so damn stupid?' He asked.</p><p>'S'pose.' Eugene answered.</p><p>Edward nodded to himself, running his tongue thoughtfully over his teeth. ‘So Phillips and Dad are the only ones who know?’ He asked, hesitantly.</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>'This Jack? He from round here?' </p><p>Eugene shook his head. 'Memphis.' He stated, wetly.</p><p>'So ain't no one hear gonna hear this from him?'</p><p>Eugene shook his head again.</p><p>'And there's been no one else?'</p><p>He shook his head again. 'Ju... just them.' </p><p>'OK.' Edward murmured, gently, wrapping a firm arm around his shoulder as he pulled his head against the crook of his shoulder. Like a Father would do his son; as Merriell had done so often. Eugene shut his eyes, relishing in the affection.</p><p>‘Listen to me - I’ll sort it.’ He assured him. ‘OK? No mob comin', you ain't goin' nowhere, not hospital, not prison. Nowhere but with me.’</p><p>‘You can’t fix that.’ Eugene breathed, wiping his eyes. 'He's going to have me fuckin' institutionalised.'</p><p>'Over my dead body, he will.' Edward answered, shaking his head. ‘I’m going to go and sort this whole mess <em>right now… </em>I just need you to pack a bag, can you pack a bag when I’m gone and promise me you won't do anything stupid?’</p><p>‘Why?’ Eugene asked.</p><p>‘Cos you’re coming home with me.’ Edward stated, firmly. ‘You’re coming to stay with me and Martha for a few weeks til school starts again, get y'out o'this damn backwater.'  He sniffed. 'Gonna give everyone space for this to settle, give you chance to sort yourself out, keep your head down for a bit. OK? That's what we're gonna do.'</p><p>Obediently, Eugene nodded. 'What about Father?' He asked. </p><p>Edward huffed, before cuffing him lightly around the head. 'Y'damn deaf?' He asked, affectionately. 'I'm gonna sort it! Leave everything to me - pack s'all you've gotta do.'</p><p>Daring to offer the tiniest show of mirth, Eugene smiled, sniffing once against as he wiped at his eyes. </p><p>'You promise?' He asked, pitifully, as he stared imploringly up towards his brother. </p><p>He nodded, firmly.</p><p>'Swear on Martha's life.' He stated. 'All you gotta do is trust me.'</p><hr/><p>Edward sat in the front seat of his car beneath the street lamp as he chain-smoked, waiting anxiously for Sid's truck to pull up in front of his house. He'd already been to his Mother's who had assured him that he and Mary were out for dinner but they'd be back within the hour.</p><p>He'd contemplated heading straight to the restaurant, but there would have too much of an audience there for what needed doing. </p><p>Suddenly, the green Dodge Pickup pulled into the street. Edward gritted his teeth, tossing his cigarette butt to the ground as he watched Sid and his wife climb from the car. </p><p>
  <em>He was laughing. </em>
</p><p>His stomach flipped with revulsion; his body shook with anger. <em>This ended tonight.</em></p><p>He wrenched the door open, casting a cursory glance up and down the road to ensure there was no one approaching before he climbed from his car, striding towards Sid before he had the chance to make his way into the house.</p><p>'Phillips!' He shouted, storming up the driveway. 'I need to talk to you!'</p><p>Sid turned, immediately blanching at the sight of him. </p><p>‘Hey, Mary, just give us a second.’ He murmured, pressing a hand to his wife’s waist as he passed her the keys to the house.</p><p>She glanced at Edward before nodding and moving towards the house, shutting the door behind herself.</p><p>Sid turned to face him, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his slacks as he kicked at the drive with his dress shoe. </p><p>‘Eddie, I know…’</p><p>Yet whatever information Sid may have been willing to divulge went unspoken.</p><p>The fist that came flying through the air appeared out of nowhere. The punch floored him, knocking him straight to the dirt as blood flew from his mouth. Instantly, Edward was on top of him, grasping him by the front of his shirt. His second punch landed harder than the first, causing Sid's nose opening like a tap as he lay dazed against the gravel driveway.</p><p>He shook him viciously. 'Who've you told?!' He demanded.</p><p>Sid gaped, struggling against him, speechless as he stuttered against the blood pouring from his face.</p><p>'Want another one?' Edward growled, tightening his hold on the front of his shirt threateningly. 'I said who<em> the</em> <em>fuck </em>have you told?' </p><p>He gasped, shaking his head emphatically, blood from his nose running down to his mouth and coating his teeth.</p><p>'No... no one.' He gasped, trying to push him away. 'I swear, I ain't told nobody.'</p><p>Edward relinquished his grip enough to yank him into a sitting position by his placket, causing several buttons to go flying into the dirt. He pressed his face close to Sid's, his eyes skirting the expanse of his upper body loathingly.</p><p>'You should be ashamed.’ He spat.</p><p>Sid's face contorted, as he made to shove him away. 'He's... he's...'</p><p>Edward lip curled, his hand flying against his throat. 'He's what?' He demanded, his voice barely audible. 'I fucking <em>dare you</em> to finish that sentence.'</p><p>Sid recoiled, batting him away as he flinched at the prospect of another strike. His insult falling silent.</p><p>Edward scoffed, disparagingly. 'That's always been you, ain't it Sidney? <em>A</em><em> cowardly asshole... c</em>an say filth to Gene 'cos he won't fight back, can't say it to me though...can ya?' He shook his head. ‘I caught him with a Luger to his brains because’a you.’</p><p>His mouth slackened, yet he said nothing.</p><p>Edward scoffed lightly. 'This is what's gonna happen. First - you're gonna keep your damn mouth shut.' He stated, before lowering his head closer towards Sid's. 'Second - you're gonna stay<em> the fuck</em> away from my brother, d'you understand me?’</p><p>He gave a cursory glance up the street to ensure no one was approaching before he continued.</p><p>‘As far as you're concerned, he never came back to Mobile - might as well've died out there, y'hear? You don't <em>contact</em> him, you don’t <em>come near</em> him, you don’t so much as look at him in the <em>goddamn street</em> and if I hear you have breathed <em>a word</em> of this to anyone… including your fucking wife then I will kill you, Phillips. Do you understand?’</p><p>Sid gaped and Edward gave him another shake.</p><p>‘Do. You. Understand. Me?!’ He repeated, menacingly.</p><p>He nodded desperately, gazing up at him with a petrified expression, under no illusion that Edward was willing to follow through on such a threat.</p><p>Edward laughed, before dropping him to the dirt as he stood up.</p><p>‘Fuckin' doctor.' He spat, looming over as Sid scrambled in the gravel. 'Make me fuckin' hurl - you ain't got a damn carin' bone in your body, y'worthless bastard...' He shook his head. 'He’s worth ten of you.’ He spat. ‘You pitiful, chicken-shit excuse of a friend. He would <em>never</em> have turned his back on you.'</p><p>He turned, moving to walk back to his car before the image of seeing Eugene cowering on the floor with the gun pressed to his temple appeared before his eyes, the same sickening bile rising in his throat. He span back around, colliding his boot with Sid's chest, knocking him back to the floor with a grunt before kicking him one last time.</p><p>Satisfied with the agonised cry that erupted from him.</p><p>Sid wheezed, clutching his chest.</p><p>Edward glared at him, spat to the ground beside him before turning on his heel. Shaking out his bloody fist and disappearing down the street without another word.</p><hr/><p>Eugene sat on his brother's back porch, watching as the smoke of his cigarette rose into the early morning air.</p><p>He hadn't slept much since arriving three nights earlier; Edward had done so much for him already and Martha had been so kind to him since he'd turned up unannounced on her doorstep that the thought of waking them with his screaming filled him with enough guilt to wash away his tiredness.</p><p>That was how he had spent most of his time during the last three days - thinking. That was all there really was to do at Edward's; sit and think and smoke and drink. <em>Merriell would be proud of him.</em></p><p>He cleared his throat stiffly. His Father had called multiple times each night; clearly after his Mother had retired for the evening. Edward always took the call and despite the fact he would shut all the internal doors behind himself; it was impossible to avoid at least Edward's side of the conversation as they sat in the living room. </p><p>
  <em>Call yourself a damn medical professional... Turn up on my damn porch for all I care; you ain't takin' him anywhere... No, if you get Mother involved I'll tell her <strong>exactly </strong>what is going on... Stop payin' for his college if you want; we'll figure it out somehow.., Really? Of all of Eugene's ails, it's this that has you awake at night? ... No, Pop, I don't think Jesus would find that statement very Christianly, either... Sidney Phillips should consider himself lucky that his nose is the only thing I broke... It doesn't matter what happened - all you need to know is he ain't comin' back...  Bring him back so what? You can ship him off? Punish him? Isolate him? Naw... I'll swear all I damn well want... On whose say-so - a ravin' war vet who's currently holed up in the hospital? ... Call the cops then, I dare ya - have Ma explain that one away to her church group...</em>
</p><p>Martha would purposely turn the wireless up when the conversation transcended into a shouting match. Eugene would sit on his stool by the fire, gazing into its embers as The Amazing Mr. Malone blasted out from the radio half-drowning out his brother's expletives.</p><p>There would be a scraping beside him and he would glance up, to see her stood over him, holding out her special box of evening biscuits that she kept secreted beneath her chair. The special ones with the jam in the middle that Edward wasn't allowed anywhere near. She would affectionately squeeze his shoulder as he took one, before clandestinely stowing the tin back in its hiding place.</p><p>In that moment, he would feel marginally less alone.</p><p>Eugene found it all very odd that he would have been dead for three days now.</p><p><em>Who would have cleared up the blood?</em> Annie, most likely. Then again, maybe the police would have someone special.</p><p><em>Would his hand have bruised so badly from Edward's kick if he'd managed to shoot himself in time?</em> He didn't think so. Then again, Edward had been one of the best Placekickers in the state during his high school years so the chances of him having missed were so minuscule that it wasn't even worth worrying about. </p><p><em>Would his Father have taken it to his grave?</em> Most definitely. Then again, surely his Mother would have realised something was amiss. Eventually.</p><p><em>At what point would he have realised that killing himself wouldn't have solved this? </em>Most likely as he watched them flounder in the aftermath of his death. What would even have been next? Would heaven have had him? Hell, was heaven real at all?</p><p>What did he do now?</p><p>A letter had arrived in the second post the previous afternoon. The curved writing of his Father's hand had subsequently glared at him from the kitchen table for most of the day. Martha had offered to hide it for him or even burn it - whatever he wanted. He declined the offer; as kind as it had been.</p><p>After dinner, he had surrendered to his curiosity, slinking up to the guest room and ripping the envelope open. He had expected pages of diatribe outlining his Father's disappointment, his shame. It hadn't. Instead, the five words of its contents had rendered him to tears.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>You can always come home.</em> </strong>
</p><p>That had been the general consensus of his entire family, it appeared.</p><p>He had sat in a daze at his brother's dinner table on that first night, picking at the crust of the grilled cheese sandwich Martha had made them both upon arrival. Simply unable to process the events of the last day.</p><p>Edward had cleared his throat over the heavy atmosphere, cigarette clutched in between his fingers. </p><p>'Marth?'</p><p>Eugene's eyes had flicked towards him at the sound of his voice as Martha made a noise of acknowledgement from behind her romance novel - her self confessed addiction. However, Eugene doubted she was finding <em>Friday's Child </em>as riveting as she claimed it to be.</p><p>Edward glanced at him before rolling his tongue over his bottom lip, taking a deep drag of his smoke.</p><p>'Gene's a Queer - that a problem with you, doll?'</p><p>His heart clenched in his chest, his collar moistened with sweat.</p><p>Martha turned the page, disinterestedly. 'Does it stop him from helpin' with the dishes?' She asked.</p><p>Edward pulled a face of contemplation. 'Not as far as I'm aware.' He stated, he turned to Eugene. 'Eugene, does bein' Queer stop you helping with the dishes?" </p><p>Despite everything. Despite the fact that he had tried to shoot himself not four hours earlier. Despite the fact that he didn't know if he would ever be allowed to go home. Despite the fact that he knew nothing would ever be quite the same again - Eugene smirked.</p><p>'I can't say it's ever come up.' He answered, honestly.</p><p>'He can't say it's ever come up.' Edward offered his wife, feigning an air of seriousness.</p><p>Martha sighed. 'Then I can't imagine it being an issue.' </p><p>'Excellent.' Edward surmised, picking up his half-eaten sandwich. 'What's on the wireless?'</p><p>After several moments of staring at the tablecloth, Eugene reached for his own plate and picked up the un-offensive looking Grilled Cheese. Martha cooked lots of things badly; he'd eaten here enough to know that by now. However, her Grilled Cheeses were never anything short of exceptional, so it would be a shame to waste it.</p><p>His mind had sat reeling since the first second he had arrived in Evergreen. For the first time since returning from China, Eugene felt this had been his first chance of clarity - his first chance to think. As Edward had assured him it would be. </p><p>To think about things he didn't want to think about.</p><p>
  <em>The shy, disbelieving bark of laughter sounded lowly in his ear. Hands lingered against his lower belly, holding him upright on his shaking knees. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'That's it.' Merriell crooned, gently. His breath stuttered as he spoke. Eugene could feel him shivering from the exertion of holding his hips still against him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He tried to speak, he tried to breathe, he tried to do anything other than utter the tiny pants and grunts that were falling from his throat at the aching gratification of the feel of Merriell inside him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It had taken weeks of cajoling for him to even agree to try this. Merriell had scrutinised every inch of him as he had worked him open, checking for any sign of pain or hesitation. Had shushed, soothed and kissed every stutter and mewl that fell from his throat. Had run his hands adoringly over the expanse of Eugene's entire body as though he had been made of something precious.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene surmised, this was unlike anything he had ever felt in his entire life. The intimacy, the euphoria, the unparallel bliss. For the first time, he understood why Merriell enjoyed it so much. There was a protectiveness to the act; an unspoken bond that developed from such intimacy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell was mumbling incoherently against the nape of his neck as he slid in to the hilt, his hands smoothing over the expanse of Eugene's entire body. Bashful, tender and desperate whilst Eugene could only whimper in response. He tugged desperately at the aching erection between his legs for just an ounce of reprieve. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He trembled, suddenly grabbing onto Merriell's hand, interlocking their fingers and bringing their joined grasp to his chest. There was a bubbling vulnerability sitting heavily in his chest that Eugene wasn't sure made him want to start crying or to scream out in pleasure. Did they not risk waking the entire barracks, he would have done both. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He wondered if this was what Merriell felt each time. Whether he felt the same heady, excruciating euphoria that was both too much and not enough at the same time. Whether he, like Eugene at that moment, would have done anything for this moment never to have ended. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was as though Merriell were able to read his mind. He reached forward, pressing his lips against the tacky skin of his sweat-drenched neck. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I've got you.' He breathed, swearing under his breath as his hips stuttered lightly and Eugene let out a grunt of near-hysterical desperation. Merriell raised a hand to his hair, stroking his fingers through against the sweat-soaked tendrils, pulling the dripping strands back from his forehead. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><span>'Amoureux.'</span> He gasped, his hips inching forward as he reached round to take Eugene's swollen head between his fingers, rubbing gently against the precum soaked slit. <span>'Plaire. Plaire.'</span></em>
</p><p>
  <em>He gasped out a choked moan, his face contorted, unable to utter a single sound.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene trembled, his face contorted, unable to utter a single sound. </em>
</p><p><em>'</em> <em>P... please.' He managed, eyes rolling back in his head. </em></p><p>
  <em>Knowing exactly what he needed; Merriell obliged. Steadying his hands against Eugene's hips, he slowly withdrew before sinking back against his tight hole, as the last vestiges of Eugene's virginity shattered around them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't comprehend anything beyond the pair of them in that exact moment. He let out a desperate sob, that Merriell shushed urgently. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I love you.' He gasped, an unusual reverence to his voice. Almost sounding tormented at his urgency to be believed. 'Je... je... je t'aime tellement.'  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene nodded, urgently. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><span>'Je dois vous quitter.'</span> He choked agonisingly, as he clutched at him. <span>'Je ne veux pas mais je dois.'</span></em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Anything.' Eugene hissed, his teeth clutched around each word as he struggled against his own euphoria, without the slightest idea what Merriell was saying. 'Anything. I'll do anything.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em><span>'Saisir.'</span> He begged, desperately. <span>'C'est tout. C'est tout.'</span></em>
</p><p>Eugene shut his eyes against the tears that sat within them. He cleared his throat and sniffed, taking in another lungful of smoke. </p><p>He had looked it up once he'd arrived home. It was only upon their separation that Eugene had realised that Merriell had been uttering the same phrases during those last days. He had spoken them so often that they have become imprinted on his memory. Like every other aspect of their time together.</p><p><em>Vous Quitter. </em>Leave you.</p><p><em>Je dois. </em>I have to.</p><p>Eugene glanced down at the packet of cigarettes that sat on the table. He picked them up, running his thumb over the image of the camel.</p><p>He cleared his throat, inhaling the dew of the early morning grass and the sweetness of the wicker chair beneath him.</p><p>He could pinpoint it down to a week, he had realised. Pinpoint the moment that Merriell had made the decision to go. </p><p>Somewhere between him waking up in the early hours to find him sat on the floor beside their bunk as he smoked, running his fingers through Eugene's hair, a harrowed expression on his face. To the night he found him vomiting into the toilet of the latrine in the middle of the night a few days before they returned stateside.</p><p>Eugene sniffed. It was in the middle of those two events that he had made the choice.</p><p>He so wished he had realised at the time - recognised the signs. Yet, like everything in his life, he had turned out to be just a step too far behind.</p><p><em>Hindsight was a wonderful thing, </em>he had discovered. <em>There was such clarity in the aftermath.</em></p><p>Taking a deep breath, he glanced out over Edward's overgrown back garden. His only companions now the crickets.</p><p>He made to pull his bomber jacket around him tightly, protecting himself from the early morning breeze when something in his inside pocket crinkled. He frowned, reaching into it to see what it was. </p><p>
  <em>A quartered letter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>From the American War Office.</em>
</p><p>Eugene stared at it, dumbly, his mouth sliding open. He had completely forgotten about the letter his Mother had handed him not ten minutes before Sid had arrived, the letter he had shoved into his pocket for later. Before his world had come collapsing down around him.</p><p>This had been the first time he had worn the jacket since.</p><p>He didn't need to re-read its contents to know what it said. The words were imprinted into him; like every inch of Merriell was - a part of him, no matter how much it hurt.<em> No matter how much he wished to forget.</em></p><p>He swallowed; a calm resignation of acceptance finally washing over him. </p><p>He had fallen in love with his gunner in the middle of the most vicious war in human history. His first real kiss had been in a stinking foxhole beneath the driving rain, thousands of miles from home, ambivalent to whether he lived or died. He had fallen asleep with the intention of getting off the train at Jackson, safe in the knowledge they would face whatever was coming together. He had awoken to an empty seat opposite him and a part of him had shattered, never to be pieced back together. Never to love or trust quite the same.</p><p>Yet no matter the pain. He had loved and he had been loved. He had also been left. He had also survived.</p><p>He had survived a war and he had survived the agony of his first heartbreak, just the same as he had survived a physical bullet heading directly for his head.</p><p>He was seemingly <em>excellent</em> at surviving. Yet in the three days since Eugene had arrived at his brother's house; he had come to the realisation that he had been doing just that - surviving. Floating from one week to the next, one month to the next. He was surviving - not living. </p><p>It had taken so many agonising nights, so many excruciating battles with himself for Eugene to reach the conclusion of <em>why</em> Merriell had done it.</p><p>It hadn't been because he hadn't loved him, he had - fiercely.</p><p>No, it had been because the thought of Eugene hiding in sin had crippled him. He had made the decision to leave so that Eugene wouldn't waste his life. Above anything else, above his own happiness, he had wanted Eugene to live.</p><p>He lowered his gaze at the notion. <em>After everything, he deserved to live. </em></p><p>Merriell wasn't coming back; he'd known that since the second he had opened his eyes on that fucking train. Yet he was waiting all the same. Waiting and wasting.</p><p>Wasting the life Merriell had so desperately wanted him to live as he waited for a shadow to return. A shadow that was as likely to make an appearance as likely as it was for the smoke rising from his cigarette to return once it had been extinguished.</p><p>
  <em>If he wanted to be found; he would be. If he wanted to find you; he would do. He knows where you are.</em>
</p><p>Eugene took a deep, wavering breath as he reached for the envelope. He fired up his lighter, pressing the flame against the corner of the paper.</p><p>With tears heavy in his eyes, he watched it ignite, the flame dancing across the envelope.</p><p>With blurred vision, he clutched onto the envelope until the heat from the flame against his fingertips became unbearable.</p><p>Despite his desperate urge to hold on, he dropped the burning paper into the ashtray. He sniffed, letting out a low mewl as he watched the stream of smoke drift skyward, never to be seen again. </p><p>He took a deep breath.</p><p>‘Goodbye, Merriell.’ He whispered.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so for reading.</p><p>I would love to know what you think.</p><p>We stan a mentally healthy Eugene who cannot progress without sorting out his own headspace &lt;3</p><p>-</p><p>During this chapter - Eugene returns home that night after having gotten drunk at a bar after his altercation with Sid. His Father attempts to put him to bed, however, Eugene becomes aware his Father knows he is gay. The following morning, he awakes to find he has wet the bed again, his Father calls him down for a conversation in his office to finally discuss their issues. He asks Eugene to explain his relationship with a college friend, Jack Greer. Jack was a housemate who struggled in the aftermath of his war experience, like Eugene. </p><p>The pair had a romantic relationship, which Eugene called off due to still having feelings for Merriell. Subsequently, Jack drops out of college. Eugene's Father confesses that he was informed of their relationship by Jack's Father and the family have had Jack committed due to his homosexuality. Eugene confirms his relationship with Jack and asks his Father what he intends to do.</p><p>His Father is unable to answer and breaks down at the knowledge Eugene is gay. This is the final straw for Eugene who promises to save the family any public humiliation should the news come out. Whilst his parents are out, Eugene attempts to take his Grandfather's pistol. However, Edward arrives at the house unannounced and stops him.</p><p>Eugene confesses to Edward about his relationship with Merriell and how he doesn't think he has a way out. Edward assures him his sexuality doesn't change anything about their relationship and vows to cover up the news he is a homosexual.</p><p>He attacks Sid in order to keep him quiet and threatens him to make him stay away from Eugene. He takes Eugene back to his house where he is greeted warmly by Martha.</p><p>Edward isolates Eugene from his Father, refusing to return him back to Mobile or allow him any contact for fear his Father will attempt to have him committed. Eugene finally starts to look to the future.</p><p>He realises that Merriell does not intend to return and he is doing him a disservice by not moving on from the relationship. He assures himself that Merriell knows where to find him should he wish and burns the letter from the war office, bading him goodbye as he attempts to move on with his life.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, you lovely lot!</p><p>I'm so sorry it's been a while since my last update. I didn't mean to go on such a damn hiatus, especially not after such a dramatic last chapter!</p><p>There's been a lot going on behind the scenes in real life, so, unfortunately, writing had to be placed on hold. Damn, this bloody virus!</p><p>But I'm back - thank you for your patience and incredible support of this story so far. </p><p>Best of luck, I hope it lives up to the expectation!</p><p>T/W: I'd like to make everyone aware of the fact that this chapter speaks in-depth about terminal disease... so please bear that in mind before reading. Additionally, there are very minor references to abusive childhoods, PTSD and poverty.</p><p>Thank you!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">November, 1948 </span>
</p><p>Merriell braced himself against the metal frame of his locker as he hacked up what felt like the entirety of his lungs onto the sleeve of his undershirt. He wheezed several breaths, fighting off the dull stinging pain in his chest. He slammed his fist into the concave of his ribs <em>once, twice</em> to steady himself. The pain of the impact serving as a momentary distraction to steady his breathing.</p><p>Slowly, his coughing subsided and with a shaking hand, he raised his canteen to his lips and swallowed down the final dregs of liquid within it. Clearing his throat, he spat a bulge of thick phlegm out onto the floor of the tack room. He had been holding onto this goddamn chest infection for the best part of six weeks. Why it was still clinging on, he had no clue. The fever that accompanied the bronchitis was equally as prevalent and of both, he was growing tired. </p><p>Allowing his eyes to sink closed for a moment, Merriell pressed his tacky skin against the metal frame of the locker unit as he listened to his wheezing breath in his throat. </p><p>The steel was cold against his cheek, as, slowly, he composed himself. He raised his head, fastening the lid of his metal water bottle, he lifted his lunch pail from his locker and tossed it back inside.</p><p>As he did so, he caught sight of the stamped U.S.M.C initials and paused for a moment. The canteen was one of the few vestiges he carried from the war; outwardly at least. He lifted it back out, tentatively pressing his thumb over the engraving, before lowering running his fingers over the barely visible daubing beneath it.</p><p>
  <em>Mud sat thickly in their laps as they lay slumped, exhausted and shivering within their foxhole, bracing themselves for the inevitable call to fall out. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Leyden's voice snapped angrily through the pregnant silence. 'It’s my goddamn water and you know it.’ He hissed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shelton let out a snort of derision, watching the heavy plume of smoke from his cigarette rise through the fetid air as it burnt. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He glanced down at the offensive canteen in his hand. He had picked it up from the trail, mid-hike. They hadn't been issued any water since they had been deployed from Ozata, nearly two days ago. His discovery of a nearly full water bottle in the thicket had been nothing short of a miracle, a miracle he was unwilling to depart with without a fight. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘I don’t see your name on it.’ He responded, ambivolently.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was an irritated sigh to his left. ‘Snaf, just give him his water back!’ Burgie interjected, forcefully.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anger instantly twisted in Shelton's gut as he span his attention towards the Sergeant. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'It ain’t his fuckin’ water!’ He declared, furiously, his cigarette smoke instantly forgotten in favour of his rage. ‘If the idiot was more careful, p’raps he’d’ve noticed the big ol' tear in his goddamn bandolier ‘fore his canteen fell out.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘There was NO TEAR!’ Leyden hissed, angrily. ‘You're the only one lunatic enough to cut it so you could take it for yourself!’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shelton's lip curled, venom surging through him, in white-hot rage. ‘Swear to God, boy!' He retorted, lunging towards him. ‘Call me a lunatic again. I’ll knife you right now.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Instantly, Burgie shoved him back against the wall of the foxhole. ‘Hey, don’t fuckin’ say shit like that to him!’ He chastised, his voice rising with anger.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shelton let out a grunt as he landed wetly against the mud. ‘You’re on his side?’ He demanded, furiously, glaring up at him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> He would fight them both, easily. Would take them with his damn KA-BAR like it were a damn Cane knife.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘He’s just usin’ his eyes.’ Leyden interjected, hotly. ‘We're barely surviving out here and you're stealin' damn canteens!'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘For fuck's sake - enough!' </em>
</p><p><em>Instantly, the three of them stilled, glancing towards the source of the outburst</em> <em>. </em></p><p>
  <em>Eugene slammed his bible shut with a thump, glaring at them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Jesus Christ - we ain't just got the Nips - we have to contend with you three  constantly at each other’s throats like rabid dogs.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shelton glared furiously towards Burgie and Leyden, unspent rage throbbing within him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tensions between them had been unbearable since landing on Okinawa a fortnight ago. The island was hellish. There was something about this godforsaken place that threatened to turn the sanest man irrational, tear the closest of brothers into scrapping enemies. Okinawa was beating them. Not just physically but emotionally.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Give me that.’ Eugene hissed, holding his hand out for the water bottle in Shelton’s grasp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He gazed at him seethingly. ‘Fuck off, Sledge.’</em>
</p><p><em>‘Give me the fuckin' canteen.’ He repeated, flatly. </em> </p><p>
  <em>Huffing air through his nose, Shelton threw the bottle angrily. If Eugene didn’t believe him; what the fuck was the point in contesting.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Snatching it, Eugene reached into his own bandolier and unclipped his water bottle, yanking his KA-BAR as he went. Using its blade, he carved into the flimsy metal. First on one and then the other.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘What you doing?’ Leyden asked, squinting.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Stoppin’ you from being so damn careless.’ Eugene muttered, tossing the second bottle back to him, before handing the first back to Shelton without a second glance. ‘He said he didn’t take it – so he didn’t fucking take it.’ He picked his bible back up off his thigh. ‘And don’t call him a lunatic.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The tension was palpable, yet no one dared to speak. Not after a chastisement from Eugene. Shelton studied his bandolier. He had no canteen, now – not until a Corpsman arrived or someone bought the farm; whichever came first. After a moment, he reached down and unclipped the secondary holder he held on his belt – the source of the argument had been his refusal to part with his spare bottle. Heavy with water, he lifted it from his waist and placed it wordlessly at Eugene’s side.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dark hazel eyes looked towards him momentarily. But Shelton returned his gaze back to his hands, his heart pounding with unspent words. He studied his newly engraved canteen.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>SNAF</em> </strong>
</p><p>The slam of the door behind him suddenly roused him back to reality, making Merriell jump as he tried to restore a façade of normality to his demeanour. He straightened himself up, tossing the bottle back into his pail and shrugging his bobbled jumper over his head. With an itching of mortification in his stomach, he prayed his coughing fit had gone unheard.</p><p>‘Shelton, I need a word.’</p><p>He turned. Deans, the Forman of the Lumber Yard, stood on the far side of the room.</p><p>‘Shoot.’ He answered, with as much casualty as he could muster as he reached into his locker for his coat. </p><p>Deans wasn’t the worst guy he’d ever worked for.</p><p>Hell, he was a bitter asshole, who hated lateness as much as he seemingly hated his wife, but to Merriell his treatment had always been adequate. He had made the concerted effort of staying out of Deans' way and thus far, the Forman had been reciprocal. However, with a prickle of shame across the hairs on the back of his neck, Merriell could discern the outcome of the upcoming conversation from his stance, alone. Surmising such pleasantries between the two had drawn to an abrupt end.</p><p>‘I’ve gotta let you go.’ Deans stated as he leant heavily against the doorframe. He huffed, with a sigh of irritation. 'I need a Loader I can rely on and you ain't it - damn, findin' anyone decent's gonna be a ballache this time'a year.’</p><p>That was all there was to it.</p><p>Merriell was an irritation to be replaced, an inconvenience. His livelihood having been ripped from under his feet in less than ten seconds meant nothing to Deans, that was business, after all. A man was always dispensable.</p><p>He nodded, sucking his teeth as he pulled his worn Deck jacket over his dusty clothes. He busied his hands with the mismatched buttons on the front, in order to hide the way they shook.</p><p>Turning back to his locker, he plucked the spare t-shirt from the shelf. Dragging his canvas backpack out, he shoved the garment, along with the remaining possessions that he stored there, into it. </p><p>He slammed the door of the locker shut before suddenly his body was once again overcome by his paralysis cough. He struggled to breathe, retching and choking, clamping his hand over his mouth. Despite his best intentions, the force doubled him over, his head knocking against the metal of the lockers as he wheezed his way through the seizure, forcing his constricted lungs to inhale and exhale. </p><p>With humiliation itching across his skin, Merriell braced himself against his knees, barely managing to straighten up. All the while, Deans' gaze bored into him as he watched the sight, silently. <em>Pitifully. </em></p><p>‘Can take a picture if ya want.’ He choked, rubbing at the crown of his head where it had smacked the locker door. ‘It’ll last longer.’</p><p>Deans clicked his tongue, irritably. ‘Ain't no need to be like that.’ He admonished, crossing his arms as he took in the sight of him. ‘Try'na look after ya - 'fore you <em>end up</em> in the chipper.'</p><p>Merriell heaved a derivative laugh, shouldering his backpack. The sentence fell like acid against his lips, repeating it viciously beneath his breath. 'Full'a shit Deans, y'know that?' </p><p>He smirked, in affirmation. 'That's the only reason I'm doin' it.' He stated. 'After this afternoon you ain't worth the risk.' </p><p>Merriell pulled a face. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’ He responded, slamming his locker door shut.</p><p>Of course, he knew what Deans was talking about - a damn halfwit wouldn't have missed it.</p><p>It wasn't just the hacking cough in his lungs or the spells of dizziness that were growing increasingly prevalent. In fact, they were proving to be the least of his worries, at the moment. In addition to the fact, his general performance was growing ever more concerning by the day. There had been three, what he would describe as, <em>incidents</em> in the last fortnight alone.</p><p>The first, he had lost his balance, overcome by a choking fit that left him light-headed and weak on his feet. He had lurched forward with a three-foot piece of lumbar, almost tumbling into the mechanical saw until he was grabbed by a co-worker.</p><p>The second, he’d wheezed so much he had lost his footing halfway up the crane. Mercifully, the bindings around his waist had saved him from plummeting the twenty-foot drop straight onto the concrete forecourt below, however, the heavy bundle of logs he had been hauling had not shared such a fate. The subsequent mess taking the best part of an afternoon to clear up.</p><p>The third had been this afternoon; his most dangerous exploit. He had fought so desperately against his contorting lungs to remain upright, managing to suppress the agonising cough that burnt against his chest and throat. He straightened up, retaking his position at the de-barker when suddenly he had collapsed, consciousness evading him.</p><p>He had awoken on the floor, faces crowding over him, Deans' furious expression amongst them. Louie, the kid from Livingston, stood close by, clutching a bandaged hand to his chest that was dripping red to his overalls. He had apparently lunged himself against the machinery to save Merriell the skin on his face, without Louie, it would have been a very different kind of awakening.</p><p>Since that moment, he had known his time on the Markel Lumber forecourt had been on borrowed time. In fact, he had been stunned he had even been allowed to finish his shift. </p><p>‘You been to see a Doctor?’ Deans interjected, drawing Merriell from his drifting thoughts.</p><p>‘W’for?’ He responded, with an aggravated shrug, leaning against the locker rack as he turned to him.</p><p>Deans clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t be smart.’ He admonished, contorting his face into a Fatherly expression that made Merriell's skin crawl. 'I'm tryin' to look out for you.'</p><p>He licked his lip, his eyes instantly flicking towards the door in his haste to escape such unwanted attention. He had spent almost the entirety of the last three years alone, with no one to bother him and no one to bother. Exactly the way he liked it.</p><p>Anything else felt unnatural to him. He wasn't used to attention, no matter the form. Especially on such private matters. </p><p>Clearing his throat, he straightened up. Anger twitched in his gut - <em>who the fuck did he think he was? </em>He was the judge of whether there was anything wrong with him. </p><p>‘No.’ Merriell amended, irritably. ‘It’s a cough. Don’t need a doctor for a damn cough’</p><p>Deans smirked. ‘You ain't a damn fool.' He muttered. 'Ain’t a cough and<em> you know it</em>. Get yourself checked out - 'fore you collapse and drown in the damn Mississipi.’</p><p>Resolving that this would end badly if he stayed much longer, he let out a derivative bark of laughter as he walked towards the door, pausing briefly as he passed as he tossed his locker key towards his ex-forman. ‘Yeah, well y'need money for a doctor and it ain’t like I got much o'that without a job.’</p><p>Satisfied with having the final word, he strode away, forcing his head into the air as he made his way out to the yard for his pay packet with what little remained of his dignity.</p><hr/><p>Christmas proceeded to be a miserable affair. </p><p>Then again, winter itself had unbearable. More-so than usual. November leaked forward into mid-December and Merriell had found himself let go from a further two jobs, his cough worsening with each passing week. By the time he had been sent home from the last lumbar yard that had agreed to hire him, not only had he barely lasted a full working week but so much as inhaling a single lungful of sawdust infused air had been agonising. </p><p>He was ill, there was no denying that now.</p><p>There were days he could barely speak, his voice barking out in a strangled rasp, and days he could barely breathe, as he would lie in bed listening to air bubbling and festering within his lungs. His diet seemed to consist almost exclusively of the raw garlic he gnawed on and the liquid concoction of water, baking powder and chilli flakes that he barely managed to baulk down without bringing it right back up.</p><p>He would have tried any endeavour at this point to at least alleviate the pains in his chest, yet nothing. Not even his Maw-Maw's fail-safes touched the affliction, so he simply chose to drown them instead.</p><p>The festive season had flashed by in a blur, with Merriell spending a majority of his time passed out on his bare mattress, in the corner of his rented room.</p><p>He had tried to convince himself his comatose state had been due to the black market hooch he had treated himself, having hoped a little cheap liquor would instil within him not only medicinal alleviation but an iota of Yuletide Spirit.</p><p>It hadn't.</p><p>Instead, when he had awoken on boxing day morning to discover himself fever-ridden and his pillow covered in blood thick mucus, he surmised he didn't even have the hooch to thank for his missing the Christmas period.</p><p>As he counted his pennies out, in the hope of affording a little tinned meat that week to replenish some of the weight he had lost, he resigned himself to the fact that finding the money for a doctor's appointment was simply non-negotiable. </p><p>The small stash of savings he had worked so hard to squirrel away for himself was utterly decimated by the time January was drawing to an end. He hadn't been paid so much as a penny in almost two months and not only was he growing further and further behind on his rent but his ability to hold down a job at this point, was utterly impossible.</p><p>He felt sickened as he sat being examined in the Doctor's office.</p><p>It had taken him weeks to claw together the $12 for the required appointment, most of which he'd had to beg, borrow and steal. To his own detriment, he knew. If he didn't get back to work and sharpish, by the time his collectors had finished with him it would be funeral costs he would have to worry about, next.</p><p>Yet his dire financial straights didn't just put his backside on the line, but onto the street, too. His landlord was growing more irate with each passing week, however, there was nothing Merriell could do other than keep his head down, for he no longer had so much as a dime to his name.</p><p>For the first time, he found himself grateful that the boarding house in which he resided, was so much of a hell hole that the rooms couldn't be given away. Of the eight abodes he had called home since returning from the war, this was by far the worst. With the plasterboard crumbling from the walls, water pooling in from the ceiling and often finding he shared his lodgings with some unwelcomed critter, the chances of his landlord giving him the boot were slim.</p><p>An unpaying tenant who kept the rats at bay was better than none at all.</p><p>Not that his landlord seemed to be mindful of such a fact. He had lost count of the number of nights he had spent sleeping out beneath the heavy skies of New Orleans in order to avoid a fruitless confrontation on the matter. If he was truthful, he preferred sleeping outdoors - the humidity reminded him of The Pacific; of better times. If it weren't for the biting cold he supposed he would do it more often, anything to avoid his decrepit little room.</p><p>As a tremor of nausea clenched in his stomach when the Doctor ran his stethoscope over the expanse of his bare back, he desperately tried to remind himself that the appointment would be worth the money in the long run.</p><p>Yet that didn't save his mind from running through the endless number of causes to which his $12 could have been better spent. He could maybe have stuck a dollar's worth of fuel into his stove to cook something with fresh ingredients or perhaps that he could have his boots resoled.</p><p>He could have paid off some of his debts so that he was no longer having to crawl half-dressed out of his broken window into the biting New Orleans rain at 3 am when his loan sharks came a-knocking. How he had retained all of his fingers thus far, was nothing short of a miracle.</p><p>Merriell resolved he had been through enough hard times to know that these were not them. His existence for the past few months had been nothing short of dire. It was only thanks to a broach of his Mawmaw's that he had managed to hold on to that he had been able to eat at all during January. He found it hard to believe that there had been a time where he believed his days of surviving off Milkorno and Anything loaves had been a thing of the past. 1949 thus far was proving to be extremely reminiscent of his childhood.</p><p>'Have y'always been so scrawny?' The Doctor asked, sceptically. His voice breaking through Merriell's thundering thoughts. </p><p>He jumped slightly, glanced over his shoulder to the Doctor sat behind him. Burying his fingers into the fabric of the jumper bunched in his hands, he shook his head.</p><p>He hadn't been this thin for as long as he could remember, he wasn't sure he had been this thin <em>ever. </em>Not even during the war.</p><p>'Not like this.' He answered. ''s been a minute since my ribs been on show.' </p><p>Behind him, the Doctor clucked a thoughtful response.</p><p>As Merriell cast his gaze around the dingy examination room in which they sat, the strip light overhead casting its flickering glimmer over the damp mottled the faded wallpaper and the outdated medical posters, he surmised the term 'Doctor' was a stretch. He had been recommended by the friend of an acquaintance he had bumped into in a bar during one of his late-night energy bursts, having needed just to get a little air from being couped up in his room all day.</p><p>
  <em>'Ain't got all his licences but he's cheap and he knows what he's talking about - he'll sort ya right.'</em>
</p><p>Of this, even Merriell was sceptical.</p><p>He stank of three-day-old liquor, had a thicker accent than his Daddy and looked just as haggard. Yet by this point, cheap was all he cared for. He didn't even need completely healing; just enough to get him back on his feet - enough to get him back working. He could afford a real doctor then - a good one. He would be able to afford all sorts when he got back to work.</p><p>'Let me hear you cough.' The Doctor directed, pressing the stethoscope beneath the base of his ribs. </p><p>He obliged, hacking bile from his aching chest as he wheezed, almost doubled over from the pain as his lungs wailed out tempestuously, in response. </p><p>The Doctor frowned.</p><p>'What is it?' Merriell asked, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jumper.</p><p>'It could be a number of things.' He surmised, with a thoughtful expression. 'Got a nasty hissin' - maybe Pneumonia?'</p><p>Merriell clicked his tongue, frustratedly. 'Yeah well, I got the bread for one'a these so figure out what it is cos maybe ain't gonna cut it.'</p><p>The doctor sighed. 'Gimme y'arm.' He directed.</p><p>He passed forward his left bicep. 'Why?' He asked.</p><p><span><em>'Mal du siècle' </em></span>He answered absently, rummaging in a drawer behind him for a capsule of medication. </p><p>Merriell blinked; Tuberculosis.</p><p>'My Momma died o'that.' He muttered, panic rolling over him.</p><p>'Hmm.' The Doctor hummed, disinterestedly, as he loaded a heavy metal syringe. 'Her 'n how many million others, boy.' He reached for his arm as he located a vein. 'If you got it, in a coupla'a you'll have a dark red lump here - if you ain't then we lookin' at somethin' else.' </p><p>'How'd you cure it?' He asked, wincing as the needle punctured his skin.</p><p>'You go to a Sanitarium.' The doctor answered as he injected the vial of liquid. 'But I don't think we lookin' at that.'</p><p>'No?' Merriell responded, wincing at the sting. 'What we lookin' at?'</p><p>The doctor frowned at him, yet offered nothing in response. 'I wanna see y'on Thursday.' He stated. 'If you got the cash or not - you can pay weekly if y'need.'</p><p>He nodded, rubbing at the spot on his arm before his pulled his jumper back over his head.</p><p>'Thursday.' He agreed.</p><hr/><p>To Merriell's relief, when Thursday rolled around, the lump on his arm remained as pale as the rest of his skin. His itchy, uncomfortable, pock ridden skin.</p><p>From the phone booth on the edge of his street, he called into the Doctor Office - divulging as much information - and stating he needn't come in for his secondary appointment. He would take a prescription for the Pneumonia and chance his luck. He'd picked up some kind of allergic reaction too but he'd see that one out himself.</p><p>The Doctor laughed, confirming a description of the minute blisters adorning Merriell's skin. 'You in for a rough coupl'a weeks, boy.' He mused.</p><p>'Why for?' Merriell responded, sucking disinterestedly on his cigarette - <em>his nickel was ticking away and he was not putting in a penny more</em>. </p><p>'Cos you got Varicella.' </p><p>He pulled a face of confusion at the wall of the phone box, before glaring out onto the street beside him. He watched a man and his dog, sniffing along the edge of the pavement.</p><p>'What's that?' He asked, lowering his gaze back to the receiver when he noticed the dog was a spaniel.</p><p>'Chicken Pox.' </p><p>He frowned, letting out a furious bark of laughter. 'You're takin' the piss.' He rebuked. 'S'wat kids get!'</p><p>The Doctor chuckled on the other end of the phone.</p><p>'Adults, too. You're gon' wanna get yourself to the store for calamine ointment - 'cos give it a day or so and you ain't gonna be wantin' to move anywhere... call the office when you're healed up - I can't see you 'til then.' </p><p>Merriell frowned angrily, bading a brief goodbye before hurriedly slamming the phone down and rattling the coin rejector in the hope of finding some loose change. <em>He wasn't a fucking child, </em><em>he'd be just fine with a few damn spots.</em></p><p>He wasn't.</p><p>By Saturday night, he lay curled against his mattress, naked save the sheen of sweat adorning his burning skin. His cigarette sat clenched between his teeth, despite the fact it had long burnt out. He didn't remember a time he had been this hot, felt this ill. He swore his temperature had been lower as he battled with Malaria in a godforsaken tent in Pavuvu. Then again, he had had an attentive bedmate then, who had dampened his fever drenched skin with cool water.</p><p>He smirked. Eugene would be furious if he could see him, you weren't supposed to scratch Chicken Pox and here he was clawing on down like there was no tomorrow.</p><p>He gouged at himself as his mind wandered, groaning as scratching fingers tore through the ripened blisters. Blood-rich plasma pooled beneath his blunt nails, he sighed in pain, the burning itch nowhere near alleviated.</p><p>He wondered if Eugene had ever had Chicken Pox? He'd had everything else as a child so it was safe to assume he'd had this too. Eugene wouldn't have been allowed to scratch; his Doctor Daddy would have seen to that. An urge of venom curled in his stomach, <em>fuck Eugene and his fucking middle class fucking perfect family. FUCK HIM! </em><em>Fuck his new wife and his stupid ass fucking kids. Fuck his fancy-ass job and his happiness. Fuck everything about him. </em></p><p>Merriell mewled, curling in on himself as tears pricked at his eyes. </p><p>The familiar sight of Eugene curled against the window, fast asleep with his head resting on his seabag filled his memory. His tie loosened against his neck, his top button undone. His eyelids soft and closed, his hair mussed at the back, his nose twitching as he dreamt, his lips slightly parted. His arms folded protectively against his chest. </p><p>Miserably he sniffed against the growing sob in his chest as he wiped them away; he couldn't have meant that less if he tried.</p><p><em>He'd have cried when he woke up. </em>A little voice reminded him as the familiar gut-wrenching guilt descended in his stomach. <em>He'd have been devastated at you; he'd have hated you. Still will. Hell, that's even if he remembers you, at all.</em></p><p>Merriell growled to himself. 'Not now.' He mumbled, screwing his eyes shut. </p><p>Suddenly, he was back, stood rigidly in the aisle, dressed in his Service Greens as the train rolled to a halt, Eugene slumbering before him.</p><p>
  <em>Merriell stood, seabag clutched over his shoulder, tears threatening in his eyes, agony clenching in his chest. His feet stood leadened beneath him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'LAST CALL OF NEW ORLEANS.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Panic swelled, sweat beading across his skin as a bone-deep terror settled in his stomach. It was time to get off now, it was time to go. He had to leave. He had to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet an unshakeable constraint somehow would not allow him to move, gripping him to his position beside the padded bench as a realisation descended. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>This could be the last time he ever saw him. This would be the last time he ever saw him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Catching his lower lip between his teeth, he glanced from the sleeping figure opposite him to the bustling platform outside the window. His heart pounded deafeningly in his chest.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His mind flashed instantly to their promised future, to what might be. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>To their own sense of domesticity, fucked up and dangerous as it may turn out to be.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To Eugene, curled beneath the thick covers on their bed, his crop of red hair barely visible as he slept in on a Sunday morning.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To a goddamn dog that they bought, just because they could.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To the smell of home cooking on the stove every night, as the recipes his Maw-Maw passed down to him began to slowly fatten them both up after three long years on too-meagre rations.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To the crackling fire in the hearth on a winter's night as Eugene dressed the Christmas tree and he finished the Red Hots to accompany the braised lamb rack and vegetables.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To slammed doors and arguments, angry words and broken promises. To apologies and making up, intimacies and affections. To screwing as loud as they wanted and turning the wireless to whatever he damn well pleased. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>To a home. His home. Their home. </em>
</p><p><em>Suddenly, with a sickening terror, Merriell's seabag slammed to the floor. Blindly, he pulled is beret from his head, balling the item between his fists. </em> <em>He could stay. He could.</em></p><p>
  <em>'CLEAR THE PLATFORM!'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He couldn't leave like this. He wouldn't. They deserved a chance; just a chance. Just one chance. That was all, if it went wrong, he could leave. He would. What was the harm in one chance?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His knees slumped beneath him, instantly lowering him back to his seat. His breath caught cripplingly in his throat as he gazed at Eugene opposite him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could stay. He could.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell felt winded, like the air had been punched out of him as he yanked at the tie around his neck. He felt like he was going to suffocate from the enormity of such a foolish decision.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He had no money. Not a penny. No family. Nowhere to go. Nothing to offer him. Not a damn thing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But he had his hands. He would work twenty hours a day, more if needed. Seven days a week. Whatever it took. It would be gruelling at first, <strong>hellish</strong>. They would fight like cat and dog and Eugene would be so terribly out of his depth. They both would be. But they'd muddle through. Somehow, they'd manage. He'd take care of him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene could get into college, what with the GI Bill his fees would all be subsidised. His folks would, for sure, chip in. He would have to pick up work himself but Merriell would make sure he had enough money for his fees. No matter what. Folks did it all the time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It would only be three years, if they could get through those first three years... the world would be their oyster. Eugene could do whatever he wanted after that. Whatever, wherever he wanted - Merriell would follow. Like a dog, roaming after his Master. Anything for Eugene. Eugene wanted him to stay. He'd do whatever Eugene wanted.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They would buy a fixer-upper, maybe. One with a boot load of land to ensure their privacy. They could pose as lodgers. That wasn't so much of a reach. They would move to the big city, get lost in it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He loved him, my God how he loved him. So much so, at times he found it crippling. At times it knocked the wind straight out of his body. There was nowhere in the world Eugene would be safer than with him, he'd murder a man with his bare hands to protect him. That had to count for something, for anything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could stay. He could.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As the train lurched forward, Eugene's eyes shot open with a start. He blindly reached out to his side, where Merriell had been sat as he fell asleep. Upon finding the chair empty, he bolted upright, his eyes still sleep heavy, his vision bleary.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I'm here.' Merriell announced quietly, his voice coming out in a rough burst with the enormity of the statement.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene peered up at him, before taking an audible sigh, visibly relaxing. His desperate gaze fixed onto him, imploringly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I thought you left.' He gasped, desperately.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A single tear fell thick and heavy from Merriell's eye as he stared at him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could stay. He could.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He shook his head.</em>
</p><p>'Not without you.' He mumbled feverishly, into his bare mattress. Suddenly, Merriell's eyes snapped open, his gaze fixing on the peeling wall beside him, Eugene nowhere in sight. Long gone, a memory. The realisation sank heavily back into him as he separated himself from his dreams. Raising a hand to his eyes, he rubbed his face, letting the drowning actualisation sit heavily for a moment. Like an obstructive against his chest. Suffocating. </p><p>He sank his eyes closed against the tears threatening within them, trying desperately to remember a time he felt as cripplingly alone as he did, in that moment.</p><p>It was only the following afternoon that he admitted to himself that he was in fact fever-ridden.</p><p>For there was simply no other explanation for the fact that Eugene Sledge was sat at his side singing the Colinda, whilst dabbing at his skin with a washcloth.</p><p>Partly due to the fact he was so burning hot that Merriell was positive steam would arise from his skin if water were applied. Yet mostly due to the fact that Eugene's grasp of any language other than his own was appalling, to say the least.</p><p><span>'Tu's d'la chance d's'sacrément j'li.'</span> He muttered, with a smile as his eyes slipped momentarily closed. <span>'T'chant com'n chat q'hurle.'</span></p><p>When he cracked his lids back open, Eugene was no longer at his side.</p><p>Instead, a Japanese soldier crouched on top of him, bayonet aloft as he screamed a warcry of venom. Merriell grunted in terror, screwing his eyes shut once again as he tried to wrestle him away. Yet the effort was in vain and suddenly it was the Japanese soldier's hands scraping over his agonising skin rather than his own.</p><p>He was helpless than to allow his nightmare to transcend, unable to escape, unable to fight back. Unable to do anything than cry out blindly for Eugene as his fever gripped him.</p><hr/><p>It was the first week in March before Merriell managed to return to the Doctor's office.</p><p>‘You havin’ a terrible time of it – ain’t ya, son?’ The Doctor commented with a low laugh as he examined the scabbed pocks that adorning his skin.</p><p>Merriell huffed in response, the memories of his two-week stint of Chicken Pox still freshly traumatic in his mind.</p><p>‘Y’don’t have’ta remind me.’ He muttered, irritably. ‘They was in my asshole.'</p><p>The Doctor stuttered a chuckle in response, holding his stethoscope against Merriell's wheezing chest before the frown he had been wearing since his arrival returned to his face. </p><p>'You've lost more weight.' He commented.</p><p>'I know.' Merriell answered. 'Didn't get chance t'eat much wi' bein' sick - I been right off my food... my throat feel all swollen up.'</p><p>'How long for?' He asked.</p><p>Merriell opened his mouth to respond, yet no audible sound came out. Instead, he descended into a pained coughing fit. He wretched and choked into the crook of his elbow, his grey shirt covering his mouth as he gripped on to the edge of the desk in front of him, fighting the growing urge to pass out. His lungs were on fire, his chest burn and his head swam.</p><p>Silently, the Doctor surveyed him, a painfully guarded expression on his face.</p><p>Almost a minute had passed by the time Merriell managed to straighten up. He glanced down to see a splatter of blood against the fabric of his sleeve. He hawked air into his lungs, shutting his eyes as he heaved several pained breaths.</p><p>'s'what the blood looks like.' He muttered, gesturing to his stained shirt.</p><p>The Doctor eyed the spot tersely before slowly pulling his stethoscope from his ears, with a muted nod.</p><p>‘Well, Doc?’ He croaked, eyes flush with tears from the exertion of coughing so violently. ‘Wha's wrong with me?’</p><p>The Doctor lowered his gaze before reached for his pipe, packing it thoughtfully.</p><p>'Tell me more about the war.' He prompted. ‘Were you infantry?</p><p>Merriell frowned. 'What's that gotta do with anythin'?'</p><p>'Just...' He gestured into the air. 'Humour me.'</p><p>‘Fifth Marines.’ He responded, settling himself back in the worn chair. ‘Pacific Theatre – fightin’ the Japs.’</p><p>The Doctor lit a match, raising it to his pipe and igniting it, a knowing smile on his face. He nodded. 'You know much about Radon?'</p><p>Merriell pulled a face of confusion. 'Ray-what?'</p><p>‘Radon.’ The Doctor repeated. ‘It’s a gas… causes breathin' problems… durin' the war, our boys did a lotta minin'... ready to lay explosives for when the enemy landed. Most cases - they was never used. 'Specially not with the Atom Bomb... but the point is - they use Radon in the buildin' of mines. Leave a lot behind, too - causes a disease use'ta be known as Mala Mettalorum.'</p><p>'In English, if y'can, Doc.' Merriell prosed, as he began buttoning his shirt. 'Or French if it's easier - this Metal shit... what is it?'</p><p>The Doctor surveyed him tentatively, before igniting his pipe. </p><p>'Lung cancer.' He answered.</p><p>Merriell stilled, a chill running up his back. A thundering of blood rushed against his ears as he suppressed the urge to be violently sick. He watched the Doctor stare at him for a moment, before huffing a laugh, a grin playing against his lips. <em>No, he couldn't have heard that correctly</em>. He swallowed.</p><p>'Coul... could y'say that again, Doc?' He asked, his voice cracking uncharacteristically as he spoke. He licked his lips, confused at how dry his mouth had suddenly become.</p><p>'You got lung cancer, Shelton.' He repeated, his voice taking on a calming tone as he spoke. <em>A pitiful tone. </em>'Fair advanced judgin' from your cough, from the mines or from somethin' else - s'wat you've got.'</p><p>Venom surged in Merriell's stomach. He shook his head.</p><p>
  <em>Who the fuck did this prick think he was? Some washed up, liquor swilling, layabout who was a step from being stricken from the medical rosta?! The fuck did he know about lung cancer? The fuck did he know about him?! The fuck did he know about... anything?!</em>
</p><p>He let out a scathing laugh, his lip curling derogatorily. 'You're full o'shit.' He retorted, his quivering fingers struggling to match his buttons against the eyehole of his shirt. 'Fuckin' Radon?! Man, that's the biggest load'a fuckin' horseshit I heard in my whole damn life!' He shook his head. 'Fuckin' funny.... if I wanted to waste near $20 damn dollars on amusin' mysel' I'd'a rented a whore.'</p><p>'I know this is a lot to tak...'</p><p>'KNOW?!' Merriell demanded, his voice reaching a crescendo. 'What <em>the fuck</em> d'you know?' His heart pounded so violently against his chest he was sure his ribs were about to break, his throat was unbearably dry, he kept forgetting to breathe. 'FUCKIN' CANCER?!' He spat, glaring at the Doctor smoking calmly before him. 'CANCER?!'</p><p>As quickly as it had arisen, Merriell's anger instantly fell away, replaced only by a suffocating sense of terror. He trembled.</p><p>'Cancer?' He repeated, desolately, staring at him imploringly. </p><p>He nodded. </p><p>Suddenly, Merriell's wheeze resumed, his chest contorting and bile rising in his throat. He slumped over in his chair, hacking up agonised heaves of air from his screaming lungs.</p><p>The Doctor watched mutely as he composed himself. He must have been a pitiful sight.</p><p>'I know it's hard t'hear.' He answered, calmly. 'But I've been doin' this longer than you been alive, boy, and I'm tellin' you - <em>that's lung cancer</em>. Might've got it from the war, might not - s'just an idea. Never can pinpoint these things.'</p><p>Merriell shook his head, punching into the concave of his ribs, in an attempt to regulate his breathing.</p><p>'I... I want a second opinion.' He stammered, fumbling for his cigarette packet desperately. <em>He just needed to steady himself, he would be alright in a moment.</em></p><p>'Be my guest.' The Doctor urged, gesturing towards the door with his hand. 'They'll come back wi' the exact same diagnosis.'</p><p>He desperately attempted to light his smoke with his wavering hands. <em>This wasn't happening. </em>On his fifth attempt, it caught. The tip igniting as nicotine rushed through him. He felt the familiar surge of the first inhale, intensified by </p><p>'We need t'send you for tests either way.' He continued. 'I ain't legally able to diagnose you wi' anything more than a damn cold, you need a specialist and hell, you'll struggle to find one in the whole state that'll accept you as a referral from this practice.'</p><p>Merriell gaped, fighting against the clenching nausea in his stomach. Resignation sank over him like a stone in water. 'You... you ain't shittin' me, are ya?' He asked, quietly.</p><p>The Doctor shook his head. 'I'm sorry, son.' He murmured.</p><p>He shook his head, leting out a hysterical laugh. 'I... I can't <em>afford</em> tests, Doc.' He responded, helplessly. 'I... it took me near two months to claw t'gether enough to come see ya in the firs' place - I ain't... I ain't got the money f'tests and shit.'</p><p>The Doctor let out a sigh. 'They won't let you start treatment without 'em.' He answered. 'An' you won't get no tests like this at no poor doctor - no matter how far ya travel.'</p><p>Merriell nodded, desperately racking his mind for a solution. 'Wh... what we lookin' at?' He asked. 'Cos... I... I can try an' borrow some - I got a couple'a bits I can sell.'</p><p>The Doctor huffed through his nose. 'You'll need a damn house full t'sell?' He responded, with a sigh. 'Cos you’re looking at prob’ly in excess of two, maybe three thousand.’</p><p>Merriell blinked.</p><p>‘More.’</p><p>He jaw slackened.‘T… to fix it?’ He asked, eyes flitting frantically as he tried to weigh up how in God’s name he could scrape almost two years worth of wages together.</p><p><em>He couldn’t, not a chance in hell. </em> <em>Not without a job.</em></p><p>‘You know much about lung cancer, son?’</p><p>Merriell shook his head.</p><p>‘Nasty disease.’ He stated. ‘Treatment’ll kill you ‘fore the cancer does.’</p><p>Suddenly, a chill ran down Merriell's spine. At that moment, the world stopped spinning. ‘Am…’ He struggled to get his lips around the words. ‘Am I <em>dyin’</em>, Doc?’</p><p>‘I’m sorry, son.’ He repeated. 'I had to wait 'til you had the negative TB test t'confirm it - but yeah I'd say y'are.' </p><p>He nodded, slowly. ‘Oh.’ He managed.</p><p>Merriell forced himself to swallow, wiping at his nose. In that moment, he found himself helpless to do anything but wonder what the breeze in Alabama smelt like.</p><p>After a moment, he managed to raise his gaze back towards the Doctor before him.</p><p>'Are you sure?' He asked, quietly. 'Cos... cos I'm only twenty-six... I... I ain't ever known anyone die o'shit like this at twenty-six.'</p><p>The Doctor lowered his gaze, his silence serving only as confirmation to Merriell's fears. 'Want my advice?' He prosed, calmly.</p><p>He nodded. Perhaps if he had found himself able to take advice four months ago and visited a doctor then, like Deans had advised, this would all be different.</p><p>'Forget the tests - ain't gonna tell ya nothin' else, they just gonna bankrupt ya.'</p><p>Merriell nodded again, grateful the Doctor seemed understanding of his financial predicament.</p><p>'Get your affairs in order - find somewhere comfortable. Get ready.' </p><p>The statement seemed alien, almost like a dream. Like a nightmare. Like the Doctor was talking to somebody else. Surely, he wasn't talking to him.</p><p>'Get ready... to<em> die</em>?' He asked, incredulously, frowning at such a perplexing notion. </p><p>He had survived a war. A childhood with his Father. Heartbreak, homelessness, near starvation. His downfall would be his own body. His one constant. He'd spent so long protecting himself from outer dangers that never once had he considered the prospect he himself would be the cause of his own demise. A civil war.</p><p>The Doctor nodded, again. Merriell lowered his gaze, his hands curling in on one another as he sat mutely in the chair.</p><p>‘You... got anyone?’ He asked.</p><p>
  <em>I have a guy a couple of states over who would have given up his entire life to spend the rest of his days with me. But that was an awfully long time ago, things are different now. I gave up everything to give him a fresh chance. Turns out that was the best damn decision I ever made.</em>
</p><p>'No.' Merriell answered, quietly.</p><p>'You'll need someone.' He pressed. 'In the end.'</p><p>Merriell winced like he had been stabbed. The air suddenly punched from his chest. He shook his head, in response, before coughing painfully. He wiped his hand on the back of his sleeve. 'I ain't need...' He trailed off. 'How... how... <em>long</em>...'</p><p>'Couldn't say for sure.' He murmured. 'Untreated?'</p><p>Merriell nodded.</p><p>Letting out a painful exhale the Doctor held up his hands in ambivalence. 'Six months?' He suggested. 'More. Less. No way to say if you won't go for the tests but... I would be <em>stunned </em>if you see the year out.'</p><p>The words should have saddened him. Merriell knew that, yet he was surprised by the sense of calmness that washed over him at the statement. A resolve of indifference settled over his terror; like a baptism of resignation. </p><p>He had no money, he stood no chance of a cure. He had nobody, he had nothing. This, in the Grand Scheme of the World, really didn't matter. He had resolved to die in a stinking foxhole in Gloucester, in Peleliu, in Okinawa, his survival had been a sheer fluke. Had felt almost like a mistake. For his demise to have been stateside a handful of years later was really nothing of note. He knew guys who would have murdered with their bare hands for another ten minutes of life, three extra years were a gift.</p><p>A gift he had squandered at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He could have gotten a girl maybe, a pretty little thing. A good cook who spoke fluent French, shared the same background as him, with dark curls, a soft round body and legs for miles - the exact opposite of what he dreamed of. They would have been happy, of a sort.</p><p>He would never have laid a hand to her, not like his Daddy. He would have been kind, at least as kind as he could muster. They'd have had a wedding, a simple affair of her family. He would have had no one to invite. Maybe a baby, if there had been time.</p><p>Most importantly, they wouldn't have been lumbered with him forever, only three years. She, and the child they may or may not have had the chance to acquire, would have been free after that. To continue on with life with Merriell Shelton only being a stain on the past. After all, that was what he was to everyone he had made the mistake of growing close to, growing attached to. Loving.</p><p>'Is… Is there anything I need to do?’ He asked, sniffing as he wiped at his nose.</p><p>The Doctor pursed his lips. ‘Keep smoking.’ He stated. ‘It’ll keep your lungs strong.’</p><p>He nodded. <em>That he could do.</em></p><p>‘Keep active, keep warm, eat well, low stress, keep... comfortable…’</p><p>
  <em>That was harder.</em>
</p><p>‘What d'you do for work?' He pressed.</p><p>'Work… work down the Lumbar Yard.’ He stated, the thought of work a far and distant memory. 'I... I ain't been able to work recently - I'm <em>between</em> jobs... right... right now.'</p><p>The doctor smirked. ‘You ain't between nothin' wi' them lungs.'</p><p>Merriell swallowed, fighting against the urge to gape at him.</p><p>He would have punched him ten minutes ago, he would have punched him five minutes ago. He would punch him now if he weren't dying.</p><p>But he was.</p><p>Merriell was dying and he would be dead by the end of the year.</p><p>The Doctor discharged him, not five minutes later, instructing him to call or to leave his details with the receptionist. Encouraging him to stay in touch, reminding him of the additional ten dollars he owed for the follow-up appointment and an extra six for the array of salves and nasal sprays he had been handed.</p><p>Yet no name or contact information was left as wordlessly, Merriell stumbled to his feet. Almost tripping over in his haste to escape the building, exiting the office and flying down the stairs, tumbling out of the front door, jumping down the steps of the surgery building and almost colliding with a Mother and her daughter in his desperation to escape.</p><p>
  <em>Not that it mattered, because Merriell was dying.</em>
</p><hr/><p>It was a full two weeks later that Merriell stood, trembling before the metal mailbox in front of him. He shivered painfully, clutching his frayed coat around him, <em>United States Postal Service </em>glared ominously back at him from the worn white lettering. He found the sight more terrifying than he had ever found a Jap.</p><p>He had been battling with his decision for over ten days, debating whether this was a good idea or the most selfish thing he had ever done.</p><p>If he were honest, Merriell was inclined to believe it to be the latter.</p><p>He had done so many deplorably, selfish things - yet this one superseded all of his previous misgivings. By far. </p><p>He liked to believe most of his misdirections had been done with, at least, the best of intentions. Whether they had panned out as he had intended or not. Even his decision to abandon Eugene on the train had been a better decision than this. A fairer one.</p><p>Then again, Merriell had spent his whole life balancing a tightrope of poor decisions, be they selfish or plain stupid. </p><p><em>'Putain d'âne' </em>was what his Mother had always called him. A goddamn donkey. Never able to make a decision until it was dangled in front of his face, like a carrot. </p><p>He glanced down to the letter clutched tightly in his hands, musing whether it was the mail he had agonisingly perfected over the course of several days or the actual mailbox itself that served as the proverbial vegetable in this, the latest poor decision of his life. </p><p>He eyed the address on the envelope. Every single world he had placed on the paper had been the culmination of hours of planning, making sure that the concise message within conveyed everything he wished to send, without divulging too much information. Trying to surmise all he had wanted to say since their years of separation.</p><p>Everything he was unable to keep held in any longer.</p><p>It had been his Father he had to thank. Odd as that was.</p><p>For he was sure the address would have sat in his wallet until his dying breath without his interjection. Not that he needed it, her address was ingrained into his memory. It had been for the entire two years since he had first acquired it.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, Merriell screwed his eyes shut before suddenly ramming the envelope into the letter drop before he had the chance to change his mind. As the paper fell away from him, he winced, letting out a gasp of resignation.</p><p>He had vowed to give her a fresh start. Away from him, their family, their city and all of the bullshit that came entangled within the fucked up Shelton package. Then again, even if she never answered him, he had nothing to lose. He just had to reach out, one last time. For his own peace of mind. Just to know she was alright.</p><p>If he never heard anything... well... it would be over by New Year, either way.</p><p>Pulling his collar over his neck, Merriell turned on his heel. Keeping his gaze pressed to his boots, be began making his way back up the street, forcing his mind onto anything other than the letter that sat waiting to be collected. </p><p>Yet despite his best intentions, he couldn't help but wonder whatever had become of the little sister he placed on a train over ten years ago. He hoped he would find his answers, soon.</p><p>For he had two people in the entire world to say goodbye to, and she was the first.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading!</p><p>Please leave me a comment, I would love to know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello all!</p><p>A far more frequent update, after the last chapter! I forgot how cathartic I found writing and how much I love this story.</p><p>We left Merriell in an exceptionally dark place and we pick him up in perhaps an even worse one. But if our boy is anything, he's a fighter. So let's see him fight back.</p><p>Thank you, as ever for all your support. It truly means to word. Seeing a comment or a like and watching the view count number go up really is such an unparalleled feeling.</p><p>This was a beast of a chapter and has taken me weeeks! Then again, I've always had too-much-itis!</p><p>If you want to get all of the references as seemlessly as possible - I'd suggest familiarising yourselves with chapters four and five of 'I do my best', or at least the mentions of Essie... I hope you enjoy!</p><p>T/W: Descriptions of illness, reference to childhood abuse, reference to domestic abuse.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>October, 1938</em> </span>
</p><p>
  <em>He had managed to track her down within the hour. Then again, it never did take him long.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She emerged from a beer hall, clutching her shawl around herself as she strode up the sidewalk in the direction of her newest apartment. A two-room above a grocery store - her newest conquest had walked out a few weeks early, apparently. It had been her longest union in his recent memory, he presumed that he been the reason for her prolonged silent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He glowered at her. She was better dressed than the last time he'd seen her - however long that had been. Almost a year, maybe? Too long for a Mother to not have had contact with her children. Not that she seemed overly phased by such a disconnect.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Silently, he stalked her from the shadow, staggering behind her along the cobbles with cat-like ease. He was surprisingly stealth, given his state of heavy inebriation. Then again, he'd had more than enough practice over the years. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He had made it almost four blocks undetected until he stumbled against a grate, falling heavily against a column of a nearby storefront. His cover shattered by the clanging echo that seemed to reverberate around the street.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She span around, instantly spotting the looming figure behind her. She recoiled, letting out a cry, presuming him to be a robber. Her tone turned to one of almost disappointment as she caught sight of his face beneath the dull glow of the street lamp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘What d'you want, Tee?’ His Mother demanded as she closed the distance between them, glaring at him like he was an irritation. As he had always been. ‘I ain't got no money.’ She added, tersely.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell smirked, leaning heavily against the pillar. He surveyed her scathingly. ‘Don’t want nothin’ from ya.’ He scoffed, his top lip curling with disgust as he spoke. <span><em>'V'sans valeur pute.' </em></span></em>
</p><p>
  <em>He watched as her expression tightened, bristling at such a vicious insult. She wasn't used to such callous words falling from her son's mouth. At least, she wasn't used to being the subject of them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Goodnight. Merriell.’ She responded, firmly. Her voice dripping with resentment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He let out a derisive bark of callous laughter. The noise making him sound so much like his Father that he wanted to be sick. 'Where you off? How much d'you not want me to come?'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She glowered at him, shaking her head repugnantly. Like one would a rat they had discovered in the parlour. Like that something was so incredibly beneath them that they couldn't, for one moment, even consider treating them with an ounce of compassion or dignity.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She stormed towards him, having the grace not to make him be the one to stagger forward. He was far too drunk for that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'This your one warnin', Tee.' She spat, furiously. ‘Get gone or I’ll set y’uncles on ya.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His lip curled, beguilingly. 'Wouldn't know the fuckers if they laid me out cold.' He answered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Yeah?' She responded. 'Well, they know you. So clear out or face them rather'n stalkin' after me in the middle of the night.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She turned without a second glance, as though she were not turning her back on her own child. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then again, she had never found that to be a particularly difficult feat. As he watched her stride away, he wondered whatever his misdiscrections must have been in a previous life. He must have been a pretty deplorable person to have had the misfortune of having been born into a family where, not only did either parent give not even the remotest shit about his wellbeing, but actively disliked him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He listened to the rhythmic clacking of her heeled boots against the wet cobblestones as he rested his cheek against the cold pillar. Alcohol and anguish gurgled viciously around his stomach as he fought the urge to vomit, barely able to keep the impending tears at bay.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'They took her today!' He shouted blindly, his voice wavering with such crucifying torment that she couldn't help but freeze. He watched her fastidiously, watching for any change in emotion. ‘Took her. She gone.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Slowly, she turned, a look of something close to regret on her face. Yet the instant he recognised it, it was gone. </em>
</p><p><em>‘</em> <em>Took her where?’ She asked quietly.</em></p><p>
  <em>He froze, the question staggering him. He had no clue.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He pulled a face, his lower lip trembling as he did. He gestured to nothing - that was everything he had left of her, after all. Adrenaline and grief remained so raw within him that he hadn't even pondered such a prospect - where? Somewhere better than here, he hoped. All he had been able to focus on for the few hours since her departure was his own descension into oblivion. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Away.’ He answered, indifferently. ‘Why’s it matter where?’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She kissed her lips, letting out a slow breath before lowering her eyes to the sidewalk at his feet. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She had the grace of almost look ashamed, he mused. After all, this was as much her fault as his. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His Daddy had always been an out and out monster - a brute. Like his Daddy, and his Daddy before him. His Mother had the audacity of going through phases of pretending like she gave a shit. Personally, he always found that to be worse. The illusion of being wanted, against the sickening reality of the truth. He had never been anything more than a burden, he was fine with that. Yet Essie? She had deserved more.</em>
</p><p><em>‘</em> <em>What d'you want from me, Tee?’ She repeated. ‘I ain’t in a position to do nothin' about that right now.’</em></p><p>
  <em>He smiled, pulling at the whiskey bottle in his waistband, wearing such a harrowing expression that he thought for one terrible moment that she may try to embrace him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He didn't know why he was here, he didn't know what he wanted. He did know one thing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He knew he was a fool. In his entire sixteen years, he had still not learnt how to stop wanting his Mother, despite how clearly she had never wanted him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Selfishly, he had hoped that finding her would make it stop hurting, just for a moment. That was all he wanted. He just wanted someone else who might care. If he had caught his Mother on a good day she would have done. Yet, today was clearly not that day. Yet, humiliatingly, he persevered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Just pretend you care.’ He murmured, desperately, his voice wavering with vulnerability. ‘Just for a few minutes… please.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She eyed the whiskey, silently.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘It’d make me feel better.’ He stated, with a desperate nod. His trembling fingers struggling to yank the lid from the bottle. ‘To think I’m ain't only one feels like he's dyin’.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She stared at him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Go home, Tee.’ She responded, quietly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He laughed again. Bitterly. The fury filling his veins lamenting any of his shameful desperation. He raised the glass bottle to his lips, downing the bitter liquid until the taste made him gag. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Where’s that?!’ He demanded incredulously, holding his arms out in hope of suggestion. ‘Where exactly you think <strong>home</strong> is, Momma? Stinkin’ room<strong> wi’ him</strong>? Cos I ain't even got that no more - he fucked off near a year ago! Been me and Essie on our own - we been on our own SINCE I WAS ELEVEN FUCKIN' YEARS OLD!'</em>
</p><p><em>The outburst rang out around the empty street. The agony of the statement almost enough to reduce him to tears. Yet she only stared on</em> <em>, silently. Her pale eyes fixing him to the spot, uttering not a sound, in response. </em></p><p>
  <em>He glared at her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could kill her, he supposed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>If he wanted to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Easily. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Could floor her in one punch and it would be over in seconds. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She deserved no less, he knew that. Deep down. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It would get out all the anger and the pain and the venom. Maybe he would be a different person underneath it all. Kind, compassionate, patient. Lovable. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>If nothing else it would end both of their lives. End both of their suffering.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then again, no matter how much he tried, he simply didn't have it in him to become his Father. He wasn't either of them, his fuck ups were of his own volition. Not theirs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He placated himself with the knowledge of no matter how much he failed, at least he cared.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Wish he’d’ve beaten us both ‘t’death.’ He stated desolately, sniffing as his vision blurred with tears. ‘Been more than we deserved.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em>With a vicious howl of desperation, he hurled the empty bottle against the gutter where it shattered wetly against the curb. He watched as she flinched at the impact. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Couldn’t protect a baby ‘tween us.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lowering his eyes to the ground, he slammed his foot three times against the crack on the sidewalk. He retained his Maw-Maw's superstitions to a fault. He was done with his Mother; what became of her would become. Yet he had resolved he would not to be around to see it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Without another word, he turned away from her, pulling the ragged collar of his tattered Deck jacket over his soggy neck as he disappeared up the street, swallowed by the darkness of the New Orleans drizzle.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That was the last time he had ever seen her. She died the following Spring. A painful death, he heard. They didn't find her for weeks, afterwards. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He'd never forgiven himself for that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not really.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span class="u">New Orleans; Spring, 1949</span>
</p><p>News that his Father had died reached him at the end of March. </p><p>An uncle he hadn't seen since childhood had arrived at his front door on a miserable Tuesday afternoon. The hesitant knock had instilled enough curiosity in Merriell for him to crawl from his bed and stagger towards the door. For the only visitors he ever received were far less courteous than to extend him the grace of knocking.</p><p>
  <span>'Baise moi, tu l'air affreux!' </span>
</p><p>Merriell frowned, gripping onto the peeling wooden door as he stared at the man stood before him. It took him a moment to place the face - ruddy-cheeked, with a head of curls and a well-fed belly to match. His Uncle Rene had aged terribly in a decade.</p><p>'Mersi.' He answered, dryly. His voice had grown like gravel in the recent weeks, his throat on fire, his limbs aching from the exertion it took to lift himself from his bed. <span>'Il mort?' </span></p><p>His Uncle nodded. <span>'M'chagren.' </span> He murmured.</p><p>Merriell snorted, hacking a cough into his forearm before spitting bile over his shoulder into the sink by the door. 'Why?' He asked. <span>'C'étai connard.'</span></p><p>
  <span>'Pren-ça, nouvelle de t'étaient vrai?' </span>
</p><p>'What?' Merriell responded, leaning heavily against the door as he pulled his cigarettes from his back pocket. 'Got one foot in the ground?'</p><p>Rene surveyed him, standing unsteadily in the doorway dressed only in an old pair of trousers and a belt that was more makeshift notches than it was leather.</p><p><span>'P'is-je entre?' </span>He asked, hesitantly. </p><p>Wordlessly, Merriell stood away from the door. </p><p>It was pleasant to an extent, he surmised after his Uncle had left. Pleasant to have had a little company beyond his own thoughts, even if that company was the Uncle who had kicked him into a ditch upon discovering him behind Madam Hebert's trinket shop, with another boy when he was fifteen. They sat opposite each other, Rene taking the sole chair in his single room, Merriell sitting at the foot of his unmade bed.</p><p>They spoke a little. Of the war, of the weather, of his Father, of the family.</p><p>Of anything but the mammoth-sized elephant in the room; Merriell's impending death.</p><p>'Why you here?' Merriell had asked, after a while. 'Y'coulda writ.' </p><p>'Didn't know y'knew how.' </p><p>He smirked. 'Yeah well. Lot's changed in a decade.' He muttered darkly, drawing thickly on his cigarette as he hacked up a mouth full of bile, spitting it into the bucket he used as a spittoon beside him.</p><p>'Was goin' through his stuff.' Rene stated, reaching into the satchel he carried over his shoulder. 'Thought you'd know what t'do wi' this.' </p><p>From the bag, he withdrew a heavy wooden box and placed it in front of Merriell. Despite himself, he couldn't help but let out an audible gasp, in response. </p><p>His Mother's jewellery box sat on his covers.</p><p>Wordlessly, he reached for it, running a hand over the smooth mahogany. With bated breath, he lifted its lid. </p><p>Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies twinkled out from inside the rich velvet lining, as it had done when he was a small boy. He instantly slammed the lid shut with a sharp, <em>snap. </em>He cleared his throat, nodding against the lump developing there. </p><p>'I... didn't know he had this.' He surmised, quietly, before choking back on a heaving cough.</p><p>'It was in the back of all his shit... was stunned he held onto it. Sold everythin' else.' Rene stated. 'Thought I dunno - could give it ya sister, if you're still in touch... but hell, Tee.' He gave him a terse glance, taking in his scrawny stature, his bones protruding sharply from beneath his drawn skin. </p><p>Merriell lowered his gaze, wishing he had had the foresight to put on a shirt before opening his door.</p><p>'Sell it and get sommet t'eat.'</p><p>His lip curled, angrily. The mortification of the notion he had to sell a precious family heirloom for something to eat was galling. The truth of it was sickening.</p><p>'I don't need to sell it.' He rebuked, defensively. 'I'm this fuckin' thin cos I can't keep anythin' down - not cos I'm too damn poor.' </p><p>It wasn't a lie, by any stretch. He was just so used to not eating, that food was a novelty. Not something that even crossed his mind, anymore.</p><p>'I didn't mean nothin' by it, Tee.' Rene amended, holding out a hand in submission. 'I'm just sayin'... look after yourself... if ya need anythin'...'</p><p>'I won't.' He responded, instantly. 'I been fine my whole life, Rene, ain't nothin' change that.' </p><p>He left not long after, the light comradery between them having been broken by his outburst. His Uncle had nodded as he reached the door, shouldering his satchel as he made to leave.</p><p>'You should come to his send off, ain't gonna be much but you're welcome.' He murmured. 'It's a week on Tuesday.'</p><p>Merriell blew a stream out a stream of smoke. 'I'll see.' He answered, before shutting the door without a further word. </p>
<hr/><p>He was too ill to attend the funeral, so it turned out.</p><p>Not that he thought he would have gone, anyway, he firmly kept reminding himself. </p><p>He watched through his dangling net curtain as the sun rose that morning, catching the earliest rays through his cracked window, the barest warmth leaking through from the galleries of the buildings around him. In the far distance, he strained his ears for the chimes of the early bells of St Louis Cathedral, as he wondered how many people relied on her reminder of daybreak as the start of their morning.</p><p>As his Father had done all of his working life. </p><p>On the sixth chime, he reached for the flask he kept beside his bed, its contents heavy with whiskey. He raised it silently in homage, before taking a deep swig of the liquid. He gagged at the way it burnt down the back of his raw throat. Tossing the container back amongst his sheets, he collapsed back against the mess of covers with an agonised bout of coughing, utterly exhausted.</p><p>It was the easiest way to get through his worst days, he had surmised. To drink for oblivion until he either ran out of alcohol or simply passed out blind drunk. </p><p>Then again, most of his days seemed to be the worst days. When he found himself bedridden, barely able to make it to the shitter up the hall, let alone to even consider trekking halfway across town to the cemetery. Not that he would have gone.</p><p>At least that was what he told himself, feverish beneath his thin blankets, trembling with sweat slickened skin.</p><p>In truth, he simply didn't have the wont to draw himself from the covers, finding it simply easier to drink, smoke, cough and languish in his own resignation. The days passed easier that way, with only his own thundering thoughts and the twinkling lull of his Mother's music box.</p><p>His hand was the only part of him to moved, his fingers ceaselessly reaching for the dark mahogany box lid as he snapped it closed and then reopen in order to restart the thirty-second ditty. Its tune alleviating a little of his pain; just for a moment.</p><p>Sinking his eyes closed, beneath his barrage of smoke Merriell allowed his mind to wander. Back to their ramshackle home on the banks of the Bayou, long before they had moved back to New Orleans, long before Essie had arrived, long before drink had truly gripped his Father and long before he had reached the realisation of just how dysfunctional his home-life truly was.</p><p>She had danced around her bedroom to the tune of her music box, when she had still been a young girl in her twenties. Before life and all its ails had tainted her, broken her, worn her passions and her optimisms into the dust as it did so many of its young. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his cheeks as he watched her from the doorway, the demure fabric of the chiffon linen draped across the windows fluttered in the breeze. </p><p>She would tell him the world was beautiful, all you had to do was know how to look at it in the right way. </p><p>
  <em>'Laissez les bon temps rouler, Petit.'  </em>
</p><p>She would remind him, whenever times grew hard and there had been many hard times.</p><p>
  <em>Petit.</em>
</p><p>He wondered how old he had been when such a pleasant diminutive had been entirely abandoned. For at some point, the nickname had been abbreviating, branding him <em>Tee </em>for the rest of his days. He had been <em>Tee </em>for as long as he could remember, to the family, at least. He loathed the sentiment, it sent shivers up his spine. The word so utterly wracked with the trauma of his childhood.</p><p>With the horrors of the relationship that he had held with his parents. Not that it mattered now, for they were both gone.</p><p>He had spent the last decade doing his best to void himself of any such memories of his Mother, a hardened vicious figure with a biting tongue and a stinging slap.</p><p>Instead, he longed for the woman he remembered from his infancy. For the woman that she had been before life had gotten in the way. From when he had still been her Petit.</p><p>If he tried hard enough, he could smell the powder she would adorn herself in from the little ceramic box she held on her dresser. Where that was now was anyone's guess.</p><p>Yet he could see it in his mind's eye as clear as his own hand, as clear as Eugene's or his sister's face. There were somethings that never faded over time.</p><p>It had been a rouge colour with an ornate floral print around the edges, only small. No larger than his palm. The lid had smashed the first time he could recall his Father striking her, slamming her against the dresser it was held on, as he watched from the doorway.</p><p>Yet she had kept it all the same.</p><p>It had been accompanied by a fluffy brush, he remembered. She would load with peach pulvilio and smear it over herself. She would haul him into her lap and tickle it across his skin with the downy gauze. He could remember beaming into their reflections in the mirror.</p><p>He, barely past a baby with dark ringlets and gleeful eyes, no way possibly older than three. She, just so full of life. The powder pot, still with its lid.</p><p>How they both had changed, by the end.</p><p><span>'Tu'rais comme moi...' </span> He mused heavily, braving his gaze to his watermarked ceiling, eyeing a particular spot where the plasterwork was broken off to upstairs' floorboards. <span>'...Peut-être.'</span></p><p>A letter forced beneath his door, awoke him from his slumber much later that afternoon.</p><p>Merriell grunted at the single <em>slam </em>that echoed around his little room. Squinting towards the door, it took him a moment to acclimatise himself, for he was no longer curled beneath a bedroll with the long, slim fingers of his bedmate curled against his own. Instead, he was alone.</p><p>'That's <em>four smokes</em>, Shelton!' An aggrieved voice called from the hallway, before another sharp bang against the fragile door almost threatened to rip it off his hinges. </p><p>Merriell let out a cough, a smirk toying against his lip.</p><p>He paid Fabien, the ten-year-old down the hall, a cigarette for each delivery of mail he delivered to his room. For no matter how ill he became, he could not possibly risk missing any correspondence... just in case. Yet, thus far, he might as well have have kept his smokes. </p><p>Letting out a grunted choke, his voice stuttered over his own breath from hours of neglect. 'You'll get 'em when ya get 'em!' He barked, over a building cough in the back of his throat. 'Now get!'</p><p>Assured he heard footsteps stomp up the hallway, Merriell allowed himself to roll forward onto his stomach, bracing himself for the outburst that was to follow.</p><p>He had it down to a fine art, by this point. Protecting his weakened body from the strain of his ailments. One arm gripping his midriff in preparation, whilst his mouth sought the opposite nook of his inner elbow.</p><p>His chest contorted with the agony of his heaving coughs, his entire body screaming out in objection against the pulled muscles in his stomach and the bile fueled burn of his throat. He wretched against the hot blood filled mucus leaking from his mouth as it hit his skin, a little of it missing the concave of his elbow and splattering onto the sheets below.</p><p>With a straining breath, he let out a gasp, sinking back against his mattress as he let out a final choke. Blindly, he reached for the dirty shirt he used as a spit rag, wiping the blood from his skin and mouth, before finally managing to sit up. He dropped the shirt to the floor, before reaching for his spittoon bucket, hacking the contents of his mouth and lungs on top of the existing mess within.</p><p>Tossing it away, he struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the dresser beside the bed. </p><p>He straightened up, furniture hobbling across the room until he reached the door. This was proving to be an especially bad day.</p><p>Gripping tightly onto the cracked sink overflowing with old dishes, he bent down with a strained grunt, screwing his eyes shut at the dull throbbing sensation in his chest. </p><p>As he straightened up, he frowned taking in the neat handwriting on the envelope before instantly, he stilled. Goosebumps arose across his skin as he took in his address.</p><p>
  <em>Merriell Shelton</em>
</p><p>
  <em>12B, 621 Esplanade Ave</em>
</p><p>
  <em>New Orleans</em>
</p><p>
  <em>LA 70116</em>
</p><p>It had been weeks since he had sent the letter to his sister, after a fortnight had gone by he had grown more and more convinced of the fact that she was not going to reply. He was a fool to think she would have done.</p><p>Or so he had thought.</p><p>With trembling hands, he carefully tore into the envelope, withdrawing the letter inside as though it were something precious. To him, it was. </p><p>The message within was short, concise. As his had been. They were a family of few words, after all.</p><p>He squinted at the words, with a frown. He still struggled to decipher writing he was not familiar with. Hell, there was only one person in the world's who handwriting that he could read easily; then again, he read that better than he read print.</p><p>
  <em>Merriell,</em>
</p><p><em>It's been too long</em>.<em> I see from your address that you are still in Louisiana.</em></p><p>
  <em>We could meet in the middle? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I could be in Memphis on the 21st? Let me know if that works.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Essie.</em>
</p><p>Letting out a low gasp of disbelief, Merriell stumbled heavily against the sink, bracing himself against the chipped porcelain. For a moment, all thought to his aching chest forgotten. She wanted to meet him.</p><p>Blindly, he stumbled back towards the dresser, desperate to lay his hands on some paper. He found some, lying half-hidden beneath a jumper that had grown too haggard to wear. Settling himself on the hardback chair against his table he began to write. </p><p>
  <em>Essie,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Memphis is fine. Where and what time?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell.</em>
</p><p>He pounded heavily on the door up the hall, having struggled up the corridor after carefully penning her address on an envelope. After several moments a woman answered, jiggling a crying baby on her hip. Her mouth pursed into a line at the sight of him. They knew better know than to attempt to exchange pleasantries.</p><p>'Fabien!' She called, sounding close to disgust as she leant inside the bustling apartment. 'It's ya <em>friend</em>.'</p><p>From inside, Fabien appeared. A crop of dark curls similar to Merriell's own fell into his eyes as he leant against the doorframe, an unimpressed expression on his face. The child amused him greatly; he would have given him a dime, instead, if he could afford it.</p><p>'You owe me.' Fabien stated, simply. Clearly unimpressed with the lack of forthcoming recompense for his trials. 'I ain't doin' no favours for ya.'</p><p>Merriell smirked. 'Four smokes.' He answered, holding out the thinly rolled cigarettes to his young friend. Eagerly, Fabien reached for them, but he withdrew them. 'Four smokes <em>if </em>you get this to the post office by last post.' He frowned. 'If not, <em>two</em>.'</p><p>'That ain't what we agreed!' He objected, affronted.</p><p>Merriell kissed his teeth. 'Fabien, d'you know much about politics?' He asked, cocking his eyebrow.</p><p>The child stared at him blankly.</p><p>'Take this as a lesson - never trust a guy's promise at face value, 'specially when you got no other options. It bites ya in the ass.' He handed him a dime. ''s for the stamp - last post - I want a receipt.' </p><p>With that, he turned, making his way back up the corridor towards his bed.</p>
<hr/><p>Merriell watched the greywater pooling against his feet before sinking its way down the rusty plughole. The shower was filthy, much like everything else in this decrepit boarding house.</p><p>Then again, it had been so long since he had last bathed that even the paltry stream of not quite tepid water dripping down on him from the showerhead felt like a rebirth.</p><p>With his gaze fixed firmly against the scuffed porcelain of the stall, he rested his head against the tiled wall, exhausted from the exertion it had taken to get himself there. The words of his sister's reply rolling around in his head, for the millionth time since her letter had arrived the previous afternoon.</p><p>
  <em>3pm, Orient Tearooms by the station. Let me know if anything changes, if not, I'll see you there.</em>
</p><p><em>Take care, </em> <em>Essie.</em></p><p>Take care.</p><p>Take care. </p><p>Take. Care.</p><p><em>What would she think of you? </em>He had demanded aloud, as he lay entangled within his mess of blankets. The sheets encrusted with burnt on ash, spilt food and the more than occasional splatter of blood.  </p><p>Letting out a self-deprecating grunt and a barking cough, he leant over to spit a thick bulge of phlegm into the bucket at his side. Collapsing back against the mattress, he shoved it away disgustedly. He had not seen fit to empty it since before his Uncle had arrived, not that it had been a frequent occurrence beforehand. Instead, he had allowed the sputum to fester into the fetid mess it had become. It was stinking.</p><p>Much like the rest of his room. From muck, old food, bodily fluids and his own maturated perspiration.</p><p>Merriell felt dirty, he felt despondent. Who was he kidding? He <em>was</em> dirty and despondent. He had been battling his symptoms for long enough to have established just what made them worse and what gave him some respite, no matter how momentary. Lying in his pit, feeling sorry for himself made his chest and his cough, irreparably worse. No matter how much easier he found the days to be.</p><p>Then again, despite how draining getting himself up, forcing down whatever meagre food he could manage and getting outside was, if he did it for a concurrent number of days he felt immeasurably better for it. Both physically and mentally.</p><p>However, as the weeks had leaked past, he simply couldn't find the emotional wherewithal to bother. He found it a tumultuously hard feat, besides inside was far less scary than the real world. Where he had to address his own problems as opposed to simply ignoring them. Inside, he could flounder within his own self-pity, hell, could drown in it. With his mind living so far in the past that he might as well still have been back in China. He wished he was.</p><p>Every footfall passing his door was Eugene in his mind, every voice from the street, every shadow flitting against his walls in the night. </p><p>Eugene's absence grew heavier with each passing of his numbered days. He had no one to get up for, that was the truth of it. To do it for himself was a ridiculous notion. He bore himself too much ill will for that.</p><p>It had been the letter sliding beneath his door that had changed everything. The thought of meeting his sister had seemed like a mirage, a desperate dream he had conjured up out of sheer desperation, much like all the others. If he hadn't had it in writing; he would have convinced himself it was.</p><p>Amidst the twinkling of his Mother's music box, he reread the wording of her letter for the thousandth time.</p><p>
  <em>3pm, Orient Tearooms. </em>
</p><p>In three weeks, he was to meet his sister and what kind of brother did he want her to remember? She deserved better than this; than him. </p><p>Than the dirty, smelling, bitter, half-starved animal he had become in the weeks since his diagnosis. She deserved him for him to at least try. Deep down; he knew he deserved that himself.</p><p>He was Merriell fucking Shelton and it was time he started acting like it.</p><p>With a grunt of exertion, he had reached for the offending bucket. The contents of which nauseated him from the moment he drew his first breath in the morning to his final inhale of his cigarette each night.</p><p>Stumbling slightly, he reached the sink, swilling the mess of his spittoon down the plughole. He left the tap running, the ice-cold water reaching the lip and pouring over its sides, globules of dried of excretions slipping out in the torrent of water every so often. It took him a further ten minutes to wrench the sash of the window open, the spring air and sunlight he had so desperately been hiding from leaking into the room from behind the ragged net curtain.</p><p>Another half an hour fand he had managed to claw together both his necessary tools and a somewhat clean outfit.</p><p>An old shirt that still smelt of sawdust shoved down the back of his dresser, a musty pair of underwear lost in his bottom drawer, a somewhat frayed but untorn pair of trousers that had been hanging over his chair for as long as he could remember and a neglected bar of soap, that had grown fuzzy with misuse. As he grabbed his towel from one of the many piles of unrequired cluttered that adorned his room, the Eugene in his mind nodded encouragingly.</p><p>For he would do as her letter advised. <em>Take care. </em></p><p>If not for himself, for her.</p><p>It was the least he owed her. It was the least she deserved.</p>
<hr/><p>If Merriell had believed in a God, he would have supposed that it had been a miracle. A miracle or his own sheer brute will. </p><p>
  <span> <em>'Putain d'âne.'</em> </span>
</p><p>He supposed his Mother had been right, in the end. He was a goddamn donkey, or as stubborn as one, at least.</p><p>He'd survived a fucking war and walking away from the two people in the world who had ever meant something to him, who he had ever meant something to. He could force himself to function, to get himself out of bed and eat and wash and look at least half fucking presentable. For a week, at least. For as long as was required; for as long as was needed to say goodbye.</p><p>It was almost as if his body had understood the limited timeframe he was under. How desperately he needed to make some temporary semblance of recovery, just enough to converse.</p><p>His departure was due from the city was due in four days when he stepped into the pawnshop for the last time.</p><p>He had spent the morning forcing down a plate of Boudin, the heat causing him to heave lungfuls of phlegm from his chest. Its burning had been almost comforting as he recalled once stating it would have been his food of choice, amidst the muck and grime of Peleliu. </p><p>Eugene had wanted barbeque. Peach Cobbler for afters. Burgie's had escaped him, no matter how much he tried. As too did the face of an unnamed Boot who Eugene had thrown to the dirt. Yet, for all the Boudin in the world, he would never have forgotten Eugene's.</p><p>Willing himself to finish plates of food, no matter how difficult he found it had allowed him to go up a belt size since Essie's letter had arrived. He had gone up a belt size and looked at least four shades less grey, if he did say so himself. Hell, he almost looked functional, like a guy you would walk past in the street without a second glance.</p><p>He wouldn't last beneath severe scrutiny, that he did know. There was little he could do about his debilitating early morning cough, his jawbones and his ribs still protruded sharply against his skin. He still wheezed rather than breathed and he had lost count of the number of times that he had briefly lost consciousness, mercifully only momentarily.</p><p>Yet he was sure his Uncle Rene could have passed him in the street and not have recognised him as the man whose door he had arrived at.</p><p>As the bell above the pawnshop door tinkled at his arrival, Benny, the owner, glanced up from his desk behind the counter, just in time for him to shrug his tattered rucksack off his shoulder.</p><p>‘Mr Shelton.’ He greeted, with a nod of familiarity. 'What will it be today?'</p><p>Merriell was unsure whether it was burningly humiliating or oddly comforting that the pawnbroker knew him by name. He opted for the latter. After all, it was Benny's ambivalence to his frequent trips that had allowed him the recovery he had so desperately needed. Without it, he wouldn't have managed to so much as leave the boarding house.</p><p>He was ashamed, deep down. Somewhere.</p><p>It had started with a man in a suit, arguing on the corner of his street with the little old lady who sat on the stoop. The topic of their interaction evaded him, the fact the man had been an asshole did not.</p><p>His wallet had been sat in the pocket of his overcoat, free for Mother Mary, Baby Jesus, along with any passerby to see. The wind had rumpled his freshly launder mac away from his body, enough that it was simply flapping in the breeze.</p><p>He hadn't been a local man, Merriell wouldn't have done it, otherwise. The guy hadn't spoken a lick of the French that the old woman was chastising him in and his midwestern accented proclamations of <em>'Speak English!' </em>went wholely unheeded.</p><p>He had been ten steps past the pair when he realised the heavy wallet sat in his left hand. He could smell the warmth of the leather as he tucked it into his breast pocket, the ease and dexterity, with which he had dipped into the anonymous man's pocket, ingrained into him as muscle memory. He found it bemusing he had resorted back to petty theft in Essie's name.</p><p>After all, it had been how he had managed to keep her fed as a child.</p><p>The wallet itself had gotten him only a few dollars thanks to the embroidered initials on the coin purse. Yet the $40 within had brought him so much relief that he could have been sick.</p><p>He had his boots resoled, he bought new laces, he afforded to have his clothes and bedding washed by the laundry woman, up the block. He'd eaten well for the first time since losing his job. The huge pot of beans and rice bubbling on the stove that he had paid to have reconnected, proved cathartic for more than just his malnourished stomach, but for his soul.</p><p>He felt more like himself than he had done in months. If stealing was the crux of that, then so be it.</p><p>It had become a bi-weekly occurrence since then, sometimes more. A quick slip into a nicely dressed woman's handbag, an inconvenient bump against a preoccupied businessman, a distracted Mother with a nice necklace and well-dressed children.</p><p>The spoils had allowed him to settle some debts, put some money towards his unpaid rent, allowed him to pick up a few essentials he had gone months without, a few bits of medication that the doctor had recommended that he had otherwise been unable to afford.</p><p>Hell, he'd even bought a new pair of trousers and a few shirts from a second-hand store, some underwear, a damn toothbrush. He had upgraded his decrepit coat for a new one. He would even go as far to say that went halfway to looking somewhat presentable.</p><p>Yet the voice in the back of his head, the flash of dark eyes and the distant smell of pipe smoke had resigned him to the fact he simply wasn't able to carry on pickpocketing around the market. The rational voice that had a distinct Alabama twang demanded to know whether a ten-dollar haul was worth the opportunity of seeing his sister?</p><p>That accusation proved to be more than real when he was spotted with his hand halfway into a college-type's pocket as he perused a shop window. It had happened so quickly that Merriell was unsure how he had even gotten away. He didn't know he had the strength to run; yet he sprinted.</p><p>The thought of a reunion with his sister being ripped away giving him the energy to tear down the back alleys before his lungs had even had the time to process what was happening. When they did; he collapsed spread eagle against the sidewalk in front of the Collonades. How he avoided being robbed himself was a miracle, in itself. </p><p>He had vowed no more after that. All he needed was someone to give the police an accurate description. It hadn't been so long that the officers of New Orleans would have forgotten entirely about him. He had been lucky; he would have been less than lucky next time.</p><p>Resultingly, he had turned his attention to his own possessions. He pawned and bartered until he had only a handful of items left to his name. There were two, in particular. The only things he had left of any worth, sentimental or monetary. Hence his final visit to the pawnbrokers.</p><p>‘You here to collect?’ Benny asked, rising from the desk and walking towards the counter. </p><p>Merriell shook his head.</p><p>‘Na, not today.’ He answered, his mind itching to the picture frame he had pawned a week ago previously. He'd gotten a haircut for that, his hair had been almost down to the nape of his neck before that. </p><p>‘What can I do for you then?’ Benny asked, leaning against the counter, pipe in hand.</p><p>He let out a grunted cough. ‘Depends.’ Shelton responded, resting the bag down. ‘Depends on what you can give me.’ </p><p>He glanced to the contents, taking the first item out and placing it onto the worn counter. Letting out a breath, the Pawnbroker cast his eyes from the crested wooden box between them before raising his gaze back towards Merriell. He shook his head silently, his tongue running over his lower lip.</p><p>'Mr. Shelton.' He said, stiffly. 'Times are not this bad.'</p><p>Merriell clucked with irritation. 'Don't be goin' soft on me, Benny.' He admonished, lowering his own view to the box. He lifted the lid, displaying his war medals.</p><p>There sat three in total. American Campaign, Asiatic-Pacific Campaign and Victory Medal, along with his Marine pin.</p><p>In truth, he hadn't opened the box since returning from China. He had almost forgotten they were there. He didn't need a few hunks of metal to remind him of the fact he served in a damn war, he wore that trauma daily.</p><p>Then again, he had wanted to part with the medals on his own terms; not out of necessity.</p><p>Benny watched him silently, before shaking his head.</p><p>'I can take 'em some place else!' Merriell interjected, jerking his thumb towards the door, goadingly. 'They need to go so're you gonna take 'em or have I gotta lug 'em across town?'</p><p>Letting out a sigh, he shook his head in response.</p><p>'They're gonna be bronze.' He stated, with a sigh, lifting one towards his mouth. 'They always are.'</p><p>Merriell watched as he bit down on each medal, in turn before lifting them onto the metal weighing scales. He coughed sharply into his sleeve.</p><p>'Yep... lookin' at around two and a half oz a piece. 85c a pound...' He trailed off, tapping away on his mechanical calculator.</p><p>'You get a lot through?' Merriell asked, with a sceptical twitch of his eyebrow. </p><p>Benny let out a titter, scratching his additions out on the paper before him. 'More than you'd believe.' He answered. 'Comes in at just over 47c, cos you've given me a lotta business, I'll call it fifty.'</p><p>'Cents?!' Merriell repeated, incredulously. The statement settled like a rock in his stomach, one of both disbelief and humiliation. '50c?! They're in perfect condition!'</p><p>Benny shrugged apologetically. ‘You got any idea how many vets out of work?' He asked, passing his workings towards Merriell as a sign of assurance. 'We got so many comin' through that it ain’t worth nothing to keep them. Send 'em off, smelt 'em down's all they’re good for.’ He tapped his workings. ‘seven and a half ounces for the medals - short of two for the pin. Hell, they'd've cost more to stamp than they're worth.’</p><p>Merriell bowed his head. It was an insult, he felt. After everything they had been through, the horrors and the degradation of war. He had lost so many friends and comrades... for what? For fifty cents worth of stamped garbage.</p><p>It was a callous reminder of their worthlessness, their replacability. The medals were an item that a rich man would have treasure and revered. Proudly shown to his grandchildren. Yet to the poor man, so desperately in need, they were useless. </p><p>To Merriell's shame,  he nodded. ‘OK.’ He agreed, hating the way his chest burnt. </p><p>Benny heaved a sigh, it clearly wasn't the answer he had wanted. ‘What about the box?’ He asked, lifting the varnished case from the counter. 'Sell this instead.'</p><p>Merriell smirked. 'They're both goin'.' He stated. 'But what? You gonna say it's made of cardboard next?'</p><p>Benny scoffed. 'Little more.' He trailed off, turning it over in his hands. 'Give you this for an even two.' </p><p>'Thank you, Mr. President.' Merriell muttered, sarcastically. </p><p>'See - it ain't <em>worth </em>sellin' the medals.' He objected, reaching for his tags to mark the box up, yet leaving the medals on the counter.</p><p>Merriell glanced back into his backpack to the object within it. He had hoped above nothing else that this had been the final piece he could have held onto. </p><p>‘How much would you give me for this?’ He asked, withdrawing his Mother's jewellery box from his bag. </p><p>Benny whistled lowly. ‘This is nice.’ He stated, eyeing it with a nod.</p><p>‘It was my Momma's.’ He murmured gently, daring to rub his fingers over the edge of polished surface for one last time. 'Was gonna give it my sister, but...' He trailed off.</p><p>Benny lifted it from the counter and Merriell couldn't help but avert his eyes as he examined it.</p><p>‘Mahogany.’ He stated, before lifting the lid. The twinkling of its tune filled the small pawnbrokers and Merriell winced at the noise, suppressing every urge within him to rip the box away from Benny's prying fingers.</p><p>'Well?' He asked, after several pained moments. He just wanted the examination over with. She had been worth immeasurably more whatever paltry sum he was about to offer him.</p><p>'Inside's ripped.' Benny countered and Merriell dared to glance up watching as he peeled back the layers of velvet, pulling a face of discontent.</p><p>‘Yeah.’ Shelton affirmed, lowering his gaze back to his feet. His newly mended boots glared back at him.</p><p>‘Ain't too bad... I can fix it up.’ He paused. ‘I’ll give you... eight sixty?’ </p><p>Merriell's head snapped back up. ‘Ten!’ He objected, furiously. ‘It’s a damn antique!’</p><p>‘Nine.’ </p><p>Flaring his nose, he pondered the offer for half a second before nodding, stiffly. It was hardly like he had the luxury of being fastidious. After all, like he had told Fabien, you got bitten in the ass when you had no other options.</p><p>'Shelton, listen to me.' Benny's voice was hesitant as he spoke and Merriell knew instantly where the conversation was headed.</p><p>'Don't.' He objected, stiffly, his skin prickling with mortification. 'If I wanted your damn opinion I'd've asked for it. I just want the money.'</p><p>'Yeah, welll you ain't gonna get it here - my boy died in Guadalcanal.' He stated. 'I'd be broken if I knew any of the boys he'd served with had to pawn their damn medals... I'll gladly buy the box but if truth told I ain't got use for the metal.'</p><p>Merriell eyed him before letting out a huff of laughter. 'I need the fifty cents, Benny.' He muttered, imploringly. </p><p>Before him, Benny shook his head. 'Sorry, Mr. Shelton.' He answered. 'Answer's no. Not from any of the Solomon Boys.' He paused. 'But I guess I can give meet you at ten for the box... if you keep the medals.'</p><p>Stiffly, Shelton nodded. His chest ached. He wasn’t used to kindness; however, misdirected.</p><p>But kindness was no use to him now.</p><p>The Pawnbroker three blocks over gave him the full fifty cents for them and even let him keep the ribbons.</p>
<hr/><p>Merriell wondered when his landlord would realise he had gone. He wondered how long it would take Fabien to stop putting mail through his door; not that he got any. He wondered how long it would take the last bunch of flowers he had lain over his Momma's grave to die.</p><p>He found himself thinking a lot, as he watched Lousiana slip by him from the train window. Hell, he actively pressed such thoughts forward in his mind in order to avoid thinking about what lay ahead of him when he would finally disembark. Surely it couldn't be good; Merriell had never gotten anything positive from his experience of trains. They only brought with them loss.</p><p>Loss and terrible motion sickness.</p><p>The way the carriage shuddered and bounced around the tracks made him nauseous, yet the memories such carriages held made him ill.</p><p>It had been a terrible morning as he boarded the carriage from Union Station, having barely made the train on time. He carried with him a small canvas duffle bag over his shoulder, having swapped his backpack for one with a larger capacity.</p><p>For within it, he carried everything that he owned. Mostly clothes, a few tidbits and a handful of medication. He had no use for much else.</p><p>As the train shuddered to a start, he watched the inner cities of Louisiana leak away and wondered if he would ever see them again. For after he had finished on his journey; he had no clue where he was headed.</p><p>The six-hour journey moved in disjointed spurts. </p><p>Merriel spent the first few hours barking agonised coughs from his chest, barely able to lift his head from the table. He would later thank himself that the outburst had meant that none of his fellow passengers seen themselves desperate enough to take a seat beside him. Allowing him the grace of avoiding any unwanted interaction. </p><p>He found himself beginning to form some semblance of recovery by mid-morning; as he usually found. The starts were always the worst, it was lying down that did it. How he had spent weeks basking in his own suffering seemed alien to him now.</p><p>After bidding the man sat adjacent to him to get him a coffee as he made his way along the carriage to the canteen, he managed to somewhat compose himself. Even forcing down the cheese sandwich that the woman pushing the refreshment trolley had somehow convinced him into buying. How? He was unsure - he hated cheese.</p><p>He surmised himself to be so damn nervous that he would have accepted anything; should it have been offered.</p><p>Plucking a cigarette from his packet with his teeth, he braved a glance to the seat opposite him. The carriage was identical to the one he, Eugene and Burgie had occupied on their ride home from California. Hell, the seat itself could have been the very one, had it not been absent of Eugene's sleeping figure.</p><p>Lowering his gaze back to the half-eaten sandwich on the table, Eugene's face filled his mind.  </p><p>
  <em>'It's great - you're great.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Eugene's whitened face gazed up at him through the pounding rain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His waxy skin was engrained with dried mud and blood and Shelton would have given anything for him to have received medical attention. Would have done anything or given, anything. Would have thrown himself to the mercy of the most sycophantic of Japanese soldiers. Would have clawed his own eyes out with his KA-BAR. Would have taken a handgun to his temple, drowned himself, anything.</em>
</p><p><em> He would have given his life for Eugene to have been able to receive medical attention and thought nothing further of it</em> <em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>But there was nothing he could do, nothing at all.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Instead, he wrapped his arms around him, embracing him against his drenched chest as warmly as he could, as he murmured low assurances over Eugene's desperate, incoherent mumbles.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Ain't shit.' He muttered, distantly, pressing a cheek against Eugene's wet head. 'Almost mornin', I'll stay up - watch sunrise for both'a us.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Beneath him, Eugene let out an agonised gasp, his head sinking back against Shelton's shoulder. He watched his eyes sink closed, before glancing down towards Eugene's injured leg. He felt blindly down through the soggy darkness for the warm pool of wetness against his trousers. He was still bleeding steadily. Withdrawing his hand, Merriell wrapped his arm back around Eugene's midriff, keeping him firmly protected from the mud.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He flicked his gaze back towards the expanse of Eugene's face. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could kiss him, he supposed. Just once, just in case. In case he was the only one to see the sun rise, after all. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Letting out several panicked gasps, Shelton shook his head fiercely. As he forced the bile back down his throat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No, there was no need to kiss him tonight. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because they would soon see morning. Both of them. Both of them had to see morning. For he were sure he would die from sheer lack of will if Eugene didn't see morning. Sheer lack of will or, as fucking pathetic as it sounded, a damn broken heart.</em>
</p><p>Glancing out of the window Merriell smirked to himself as he watched the countryside flash by. Neither of them had needed to die for such a feat to be achieved.</p><p>He'd just decided to do it, anyway.</p>
<hr/><p>Memphis was suffocatingly muggy, he found. It had been so long since he had been outside of Louisiana, hell, since he had been outside New Orleans, that he had forgotten how smothering inner cities could be.</p><p>Or perhaps his difficulty breathing was stemming from a mixture of his wheezing chest and the fact it was taking everything within him not to hyperventilate. </p><p>For today was the day he was meeting his sister.</p><p>It was simple enough to find the tearoom. He looked the address up in the directory at the station before embarking towards it, each step in the direction of Union Street rendering him even more of a hesitant wreck.</p><p>She’d been a baby the last time he’d seen her<em>. </em>With dark ringlet curls and a grubby face that he’d try to spit clean. He had prized her hands from around his middle and pushed her forward with a <em>‘G’won now.’</em></p><p>
  <em>She had cried for him, screaming his name audibly through the window of the train, banging against the glass. Amidst the gaggle of children heading for similar destinations as his sister, he supposed she would soon be swallowed by the group.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He hadn’t looked, refused to. Glancing to his boots as he lit a cigarette, purposely burning his finger on his lighter in hope it kept the tears at bay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He still hadn’t been looking when the train had begun to pull away, yet he’d followed her, matching the speed of her compartment as he walked down the platform. At the last moment, he’d looked up. She hadn't been lost, how could she ever. Essie Shelton would never be lost. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Instead, she stood centre frame of the window, her hand dangling out of the open hole at the top. She was crying for him out of sheer desperation, tears flooding down her cheeks, yet a look of acceptance in her eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d barely had a second.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He pointed his finger to his eye, to his heart and then to her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then she was gone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d walked right to the end of the platform, standing there long after the train had disappeared from view. His cigarette long smoked down to the nub.</em>
</p><p><span><em>'Jusqu'à demain 'tite fille.'</em></span> <em>He had murmured to himself before finally allowing himself to make for the exit.</em></p><p>
  <em>He'd felt older than his years, that day. A part of him whipping away with the carriage carrying the only person he had ever truly loved. As she melted out of his life, possibly forever. It was a part of himself he had never gotten back.</em>
</p><p>Merriell had located the tearoom, over forty-five minutes before they had agreed to meet.</p><p>He had donned one of his new shirts in the station toilets. It was nothing special. A thick cottoned, double-breasted blue number that had smelt funky when he'd bought it. But it had been the smartest thing he had found in the second-hand shop. After he had paid extra for the laundry lady to starch it for him, he would even go as far to say it made him look presentable. He had been saving it, especially for today, having packed it on top of the rest of his clothes in his duffle bag to keep it as neat as possible.</p><p>After wetting his hair down in the sink and brushing his teeth for the third time that day, Merriell supposed he was ready.</p><p>He'd been sat there for half an hour, glancing up at the clock at least three times a minute. Steadily nursing his packet of cigarettes as he rationed himself to one every ten minutes. He didn't want to stink of smoke when she arrived.</p><p>It was a nice little cafe, with an older lady in a yellow apron behind the till. A waitress took him over to a little table in the corner where he took his seat overlooking the door, tucking his duffle bag beneath his feet and settling himself in for what would prove to be the longest wait of his life. He wondered if she had been here before, it was far nicer than anywhere he habitually frequented.</p><p>Then again, for the life of him, he couldn't begin to imagine what she would possibly be doing in Memphis, in the first place. Not when her address revealed that she still lived in Wyoming.</p><p>Forcing his biting cough further down into his chest, Merriell glanced back up at the clock, nervously.</p><p>She was late.</p><p>Only by two minutes.</p><p>But late, all the same.</p><p>He flattened his hair down for the thousandth time since he had sat down and tugged at his burnt lip with his teeth. He had accepted a coffee from the waitress, before having the chilling thought that he may appear rude for ordering without her.</p><p>He had promptly downed the burning hot liquid in his haste to have the table cleared and the evidence removed, scalding his lip in the process. </p><p>It would blister, he supposed. He prayed desperately that it wasn't noticeable, that she wouldn't spend the entirety of their meeting staring at his bulbously burnt lip.</p><p>The arrival of a waitress at the table broke him from his blister filled thoughts.</p><p>He was half a second from waving her away, until he glanced up at her face.</p><p>He hadn’t thought he would recognise her.</p><p>Then again he would have known her completely out of context, in a crowded room full of similar-looking strangers. For it was like looking into the face of their Mother.</p><p>With his mouth agape, Merriell arose. All notions of propriety and nerves instantly leaking away from him. She was his little sister, after all.</p><p>It took a lot to render Merriell Shelton, not just speechless, but thoughtless. For after several moments of standing mutely staring at her, he found he lacked the wherewithal to form even a single cohesive thought.</p><p>She was smaller than he had envisioned. Barely pushing five foot. Petite, in all senses, with dark curls like his own reaching her shoulders and a cherry red lipstick that mirrored a colour their Mother had worn. He had never had much of an interest in girls, but he found blue floral dress that she wore very pretty. She was very pretty. Not just pretty, smart. Well-groomed, nicely put together.</p><p>A lady.</p><p>Where she got that from, he had no idea.</p><p>'Hi.' He managed after several moments. Inwardly, Merriell recoiled at how strangled his voice sounded. The noise coming out in a startled grunt, like he surprised to see her. In truth, he was. Not for one moment had he expected her to actually turn up.</p><p>A funny, muffled choke fell from her mouth at the sound of his voice. She turned away from him, covering her lower face with her hand as tried to retain her composure. Her shoulders quivering with the enormity of the situation.</p><p>Merriell shifted his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly, at a complete loss of what to say or do. He let out a wheezing rasp of breath, before doing the only thing he could think of. The only brotherly thing he thought how to do.</p><p>Tentatively, he reached a hand forward, hesitantly resting his fingers against her forearm. He could have collapsed at the shock of how warm she was beneath his touch. How real she was before him. After so much time.</p><p>'It's been a minute.' He managed, forcing his voice to sound normal. </p><p>Letting out a gasping sob, Essie nodded as she tried to turn back towards him. He watched her attempt it two, three, four times. Yet, each time she did, another grunt fell from her as she struggled to look at him.</p><p>After what felt like hours, she finally spoke. </p><p>‘I’m going to be sick.’ She murmured.</p><p>His was staggered by how Mid-Western her accent was.</p><p>A smile crept onto Merriell's face as he nodded. Of everything he had imagined her to be, she was proving to be the opposite.</p><p>‘Not the worst reaction I’ve ever had from a woman.’ He rebuked, with a resigned nod.</p><p>She let out a strangled noise that sounded almost like a laugh before finally managing to glance back towards him. She tugged desperately at her hands, her chest heaving with pained breaths.</p><p>'You sound exactly how I remember.' She gasped.</p><p>'Yeah.' He agreed, for want of any better response. 'You... you wanna... sit?' He asked, gesturing towards the seat opposite him. </p><p>She nodded, yet remained stood.</p><p>Licking his lip unsurely, Merriell glanced from her face to the chair beside her. 'You gonna... sit?' He repeated, hesitantly. Terrified by the prospect that she may have been contemplating making a break for it. </p><p>'Oh... yeah... on the chair...' She affirmed, glancing down at the wooden chair beneath her. She looked flustered herself, almost embarrassed by her blunder.</p><p>'OK.' He answered, half hovering off his own. He didn't want to appear rude and sit down first, then again, he didn't want to hesitate too much like he didn't want to sit with her. FUCK! He just so desperately wanted to make the right impression. Whatever that was.</p><p>Suddenly, as though her legs gave way beneath her, Essie sank to the chair at her side. Merriell scrambled to match her pace, worried that any delay may be misinterpreted.</p><p>He watched her take several breaths before shakily reaching for her handbag. From it, she withdrew a packet of cigarettes. With his mouth hanging slightly ajar, he watched her lift one into her mouth, failing to miss how her hands trembled as she appeared to rummage for her lighter.</p><p>Instantly, he reached into his pocket, withdrawing his pack of matches and igniting one for her. He held the flame out across the table, careful not to place it too close to her face. Damn how he wished he hadn't pawned his heavy lighter. He looked as poor as he was.</p><p>Yet she gave no utterance to such a notion. Instead, she greatfully leant forward, accepting the light. Taking several deep puffs, she sat backwards, muttering beneath her breath before glancing towards him. <em>She used to do that as a child, when she was nervous.</em></p><p>Merriell nodded, yet to what he was unsure.</p><p>‘How… how you been?’ He managed, gingerly.</p><p>Inwardly, he cringed. Their conversation thus far having sounded as though they were two acquaintances passing one another in the street. Had she expected an outlandish outburst of affection? Should he have hugged her?!</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He should he hugged her.</p><p>She nodded. ‘I'm OK.’ She answered. 'How are you?'</p><p>'OK.' He mirrored, before pausing. A silence descended before he spoke again. ‘You… you happy?’ He asked, his voice wavering slightly at the enormity of his question. </p><p><em>Damn, no, that's too weird. Too soon. </em>He thought, furiously.</p><p>He cleared his throat. 'You... you been happy? 's'what I mean?' He amended.</p><p>Yet Essie gave no indication that she had found anything he had done thus far other than wholely adequate. Taking a breath, she nodded, before smiling wetly, her eyes misting at the sentiment.</p><p>‘Yeah.’ She answered. 'I've been happy.'</p><p>Merriell let out a low huff of air that he didn’t know had been holding in his chest. He felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He opened his mouth to try and speak, yet nothing came out. If he never spoke another word to her, that would have been enough. Such an affirmation would have been enough.</p><p>Mortifyingly a tear ran down his cheek. He wiped it away before another silence descended.</p><p>This time, it was Essie who broke it.</p><p>‘I don’t know what to say.’ She confessed, with a frustrated chuckle. 'I... I've had so much I wanted to say to you... had it all planned out. But now...' She held her hands up defeatedly. 'It's gone.'</p><p>He laughed and nodded. ‘Me too’ He agreed. ‘Must be... must be a family thing.’</p><p>She smiled, reaching into her bag for a tissue and wiping her streaming eyes.</p><p>‘How old are you?’ She asked, suddenly.</p><p>'27.’ He answered. 'Just turned... well back in January... forgot about it if truth told so does that make me still 26?' He managed a grin and to his delight, she matched his smile. Even going as far as to offer what appeared to be a genuine laugh.</p><p>'I thought age came with wisdom.' She offered.</p><p>Merriell snorted, in response. 'Naw, guess I missed out on that birthday present.' He rebuked.</p><p>'I'm twenty.' She answered, after a thoughtful pause.</p><p>He nodded, her statement catching him in the middle of lighting a cigarette. He found it odd that she thought he wouldn't remember.</p><p>He let out a deep exhale. 'I know.' He stated. '21 in June. June 8th.'</p><p>Why such information caused a fresh flood of tears to stream down her face, Merriell was unsure. Then again, it was taking everything he had to hold in his own emotions so who was he to judge?</p><p>‘You married?’ She asked, after a moment.</p><p>Letting out a bark of laughter, he shook his head. <em>If only she knew. </em></p><p>‘No… are... are you?’</p><p>She nodded, sniffing and taking another drag. ‘I have a baby, too.’</p><p>He choked against his own cigarette, smoke catching in his lungs.</p><p>Of all the information he had been least expecting, that had been it.</p><p>He laughed, clutching his hands over his nose as she grinned at his blunder.</p><p>'How? ... you like... twelve years old... you ain't old enough for a goddamn baby.' He rebuked, with a click of his tongue. He surveyed her closely. ‘He a good man, your husband? He... he take care of you? Both a'you?'</p><p>She nodded, fiercely.</p><p>‘You love him?’</p><p>She nodded again.</p><p>‘That’s good.’ He affirmed, a warmth rising in his chest.</p><p>He had been petrified that she would have been destitute, with no one in the world. Terrified that she thought this meeting were to lead to a lifetime of companionship from the long lost brother, who had grown a distant memory. To know that wasn't the case? To know she was loved? To know she was happy? That meant more to him that he would ever be able to articulate.</p><p>‘You’ve got a baby?’ He pressed, a smile at his lips. 'Hell... that mean... that means I'm an Uncle?'</p><p>'It sure does.' She affirmed.</p><p>'So what I got?' He asked. 'Nephew? Niece?'</p><p>'Niece.' She answered, rummaging in her purse. She withdrew a picture wallet that was tied neatly with ribbon. Merriell surveyed it. That was the item of a woman who was loved, a woman who had a nice house and nice things. She deserved nice things.</p><p>Opening the wallet, she pressed the collection onto the table in front of him, pointing to a chubby dark-haired baby, pictured in on a rug in a checkered dress, beaming at the camera. </p><p>‘Nancy… she’s nearly one.’</p><p>He took it, with a shaking hand.</p><p>‘God, she looks like you.’ He whispered, tentatively. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own wallet, battered and falling apart. From it, he withdrew a picture, so well-thumbed that it was fraying around the edges, a deep fold across the middle. Yet he had treasured it all these years, regardless.</p><p>He pressed the photograph to the table beside the image of... his niece.</p><p>Essie gasped, clutching a hand over her mouth. ‘Is that me?’ She asked, incredulously. </p><p>He nodded, in response, reaching forward to point at the two subjects in the photograph. ‘You… and… Momma.’ He stated.</p><p>She reached for it, as though the image were a prized jewel. To Merriell, the picture had been worth so very much more.</p><p>‘I don’t remember what she looked like.’ She admitted, painfully, stroking her thumb over the face of her Mother with an ingrained familiarity. </p><p>There was an agonised beat as he watched her survey it.</p><p>‘You... you can keep that.’ He murmured, gently.</p><p>He wished he had had more to give her; anything to give her. Wished more than anything he had been able to afford to keep her music box. Yet without its spoils; he wouldn't have been able to afford the train ticket.</p><p>‘I’ve had it long enough – your turn now. I carried that with me through the whole war - that I held onto with everythin'... it... it was my good luck charm... brought me home.’</p><p>Raising her gaze back towards him, Essie stared at him imploringly.</p><p>‘I wrote you so many letters!’ She cried, in a pained whisper. ‘But you… you… I never got a reply. You never used to.... I thought.’</p><p>He laughed, derisively.</p><p>‘I couldn’t read.’ He confessed, despondently. ‘I used to pay people to read ‘em to me. Pay ‘em to write you back.’ He paused. ‘A…. a friend of mine… in the Marines… he taught me durin’ the war… and I… I wrote you... took me... <em>weeks... </em>and I... applied for your address but... I...’ He trailed off, with a self-deprecating noise of disgust. 'I never sent it... was too much of a coward to send it. It ain't got nothin' to do with you... was cos I was too pig-shit dumb to read 'em proper or reply.' </p><p>Her mouth slackened.</p><p>‘I… I didn’t know that.’ She responded lowly, before her eyes suddenly widened with mortification. 'That... that you couldn't read! Not... not that I think you're dumb... not that you are dumb... God!'</p><p>Merriell grinned, in response. ‘Did… did you go to school?' He asked. 'Did you do well in school? You write nice. <em>Real nice.</em>’</p><p>She laughed. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean I went... but I did awfully in school. Didn't finish.’</p><p>He smiled. ‘Truant officer hated you fierce when you was with me.’ He stated. ‘Never could get ya to go.' He knocked the ash off the end of his cigarette. 'Hell, I had my work cut out bad with you! Pinnin’ you down was always like…’</p><p>‘...tryin’ to keep a cloud in your pocket.’ She finished.</p><p>Merriell blinked, stunned that she remembered the sentiment.</p><p>‘You used to say that to 'em.’ She licked her lip. 'Used to tell anyone who'd listen... <em>what d'you want me to do? Tellin' Essie what to do's like tryin' to keep a cloud in your pocket.'</em></p><p>He nodded, twitching his nose against the aching burn behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, yet he could think of anything adequate to say. </p><p>‘I’ve got something for you.’ He murmured, reaching into his bag beneath the table and withdrawing a packet envelope.</p><p>She frowned. ‘What is it?’</p><p>‘Everythin'.’ He answered. ‘Everything I got – everything I know…’ He trailed off. ‘Ain’t nothin’ worth knowin’ that ain’t in this… dates… family… shit like that… it’s all there, some pictures in there that I got my hands on.’ He nodded. ‘Other stuff, 'sides... Grandparents’ name, where she buried, where we lived as kids…’ He pressed the envelope towards her. ‘I don’t know how much you remember – how much you wanna remember… but if ya wanna remember... it's there.’</p><p>He watched her expression harden after a moment, her brow creasing with contemplation. It made him smile that after all these years she still was as sharp as a knife. </p><p>‘Merriell…’ Her voice trailed off as she frowned. ‘Merriell, what you sayin’?’</p><p>He took a deep drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose before tapping the ash out into the porcelain ashtray on the table, between them.</p><p>‘You know what I’m sayin’’ He answered, calmly - matter-of-factly.<em> It was what it was and there was no use skirting around the issue, rip the announcement off - just like a bandaid. </em>'Ain't got long, if the doctor's t'be believed... won't see out year end... s'why...' He sniffed, averting his gaze. 'S'why this was so important to me.'</p><p>She bit her lip, nostrils flaring as she shook her head. A tear slipped from her eye, followed by another and another.</p><p>‘Naw.' He objected, reaching over to grab hold of the back of her hand and give it a squeeze. 'We don't gotta start with that.’ He hissed, tightly. ‘I’m a stranger to ya, kid.’ He insisted. ‘You got a beautiful baby and a nice husband… <em>they’re</em> your family… I’m just someone who looked after ya when you was little… you’ve done just fine without me, Essie.’ His jaw twitched. ‘Ain’t no reason why that’s gonna change because we sat down and had a coffee.’</p><p>‘You’re my big brother.’ She murmured, defensively. ‘Thought about you every day for ten years.’</p><p>He gave a smile, turning her hand over with his before taking hold of it properly. ‘Well, as your brother, let me tell ya to cut that shit out.’ He responded, winking at her. ‘Cos I really ain’t worth thinkin’ ‘bout that much.’</p><p>She laughed, wiping her eyes. ‘What’s wrong with ya?’ She asked.</p><p>‘That ain't important.’ He assured her, shaking his head. ‘We got better stuff to talk on... it's all in the envelope so when you got some time sit and have a read, yeah?’ </p><p>She nodded.</p><p>'G'won, dry y'eyes now.' He pressed, letting go of her hand as he watched her heed his advice. </p><p>Instantly, he was transported back. To her being a little girl, more muck than skin, with deep red track lines down her face as she cried at their Father's antics, their Mother's rejection, the other children at school. She'd been a tough nut to the entire world, except when she'd been alone with him.</p><p>She still wiped her eyes the same, he noticed. Using the two fingers of her left hand, rubbing first her left and then the right. She gave a sniff of equal measure.</p><p>He sank his heavy eyes to the table for a moment, the realisation of quite how much of her life he had missed, settling in.</p><p>‘Can I ask you something?’ She asked, after a moment.</p><p>He smiled, nodding.</p><p>‘Did you know where they were sendin' me?’</p><p>His expression darkened and he shook his head.</p><p>
  <em>'Fuck me, Shelton.' The burly yard man interjected from his position against the wood pile. 'This from your sister, kid?' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'What the fuck does it say?!' Merriell demanded, furiously, throwing himself down from the high plinth he was sat on,so hard that a less desperate man would have lost his footing. 'Tell me what the hell it says or I swear to God...' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'You'll what?' He asked, casting a scornful gaze towards him. 'Lick of a thing like you? Take me, boy. Try it.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell considered for a moment reaching for the knife he carried on the inside of his belt, yet he thought better of it. That could wait until nightfall; it wasn't like he had anything better to do after dark in the eighteen months since she had been taken. He would stalk the fucker home if he saw fit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Broussard, as Merriell recalled his name to be, let out a bark of laughter at his silence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'She's livin' on a farm near a town called Clearmont.' He surmised, scanning the letter again. 'They make her sleep in the coop with the chickens and she picks cotton in the fields with the negroes from sunrise to sunfall. Her new Daddy beats on her fierce if she don't do as she told and the kids in the house set the yard dog on her, regular. Wants to know when you're comin' for her.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was a complicated feeling to describe, Merriell surmised. The sickening realisation of betrayal, heartbreak and horror, mixed with the churning anxiety of shame and agony. It was almost like the wind had been knocked out of him in one direction and kicked back into him in the other. The knowledge that there was nothing he can do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Can I see?' He asked, quietly, reaching a trembling hand forward to take the letter from Broussard. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Give me the nickel first.' Broussard rebuked, holding his palm out expectantly as he lifted the piece of paper from Merriell's reach.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell scrambled into his trouser pocket, stumbling through a paltry pile of loose change before counting out five cents in coppers. Hastily, he handed them to his coworker, before eagerly snatching the letter back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Thought you said ya couldn't read.' He interjected, lighting up a cigarette.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell ignored him, scanning the curled contents of the letter diligently. Searching for any shred of familiarity within its lines. He could pick out the odd letter before settling on the bottom.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Carefully, he traced each letter out with his finger. E-S-S-I-E. Essie.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I can read the important bits.' He answered.</em>
</p><p>‘No.’ He answered, clearing his throat tightly. ‘I'd've sooner chopped my own ball sack off and sent it to ‘em by post if I’d known.’ He assured her, unable to look her in the eye even after all this time. ‘They told me you was goin’ to…’ He scoffed, running his tongue over his teeth derisively. ‘... a good Christian family who wanted a nice little girl.'</p><p>He took a drag of his cigarette.</p><p>'I couldn't get you back, you know that, right?' He implored, desperately. 'I... I said that in my letter but... I tried...' </p><p>'I know.' Essie murmured. 'I knew then, too.' </p><p>'She was called Cooper.’ He recalled, picturing the nicely dressed welfare lady who had come to their near-derelict apartment in the fateful Fall of 1938. 'Edna Cooper.'</p><p>She had spoken to him like he was human, he remembered. Like she had understood how hard he had tried to look after her, like she cared. He had trusted her, wholly.</p><p>Believed he really was doing the right thing. That she would want for nothing with her nice new family; that she was going to be loved and looked after, like she had deserved. Better than he ever could.</p><p>He had scribbled signature on the dotted line to surrender her to the state, not long after. Unable to decipher the terms of the agreement, unwilling to confess as such for fear of them taking her off him, anyway.</p><p>He had never heard from her again after that fateful October afternoon; Mrs. Edna Cooper. Not after she had gotten what she had wanted from him, not after she had taken his little sister.</p><p>He learnt later of similar schemes across the country. Wherein such welfare officers were paid handsomely per head they managed to acquire to be sent out as a rural labour force. For each child, they convinced their families to surrender.</p><p>Merriell had never made the mistake of trusting anyone again, not after Edna Cooper.</p><p>She snorted, derisively.</p><p>‘They weren’t Christian.’ She objected, derisively, her lip curling in disgust. '<em>I'm Christian. </em>They... were...' She trailed off. 'They weren't.'</p><p>Merriell shut his eyes, the pain of their childhoods still so raw in such different ways.</p><p>‘You turned out real good, Es.’ He stated finally. ‘<em>Real good</em> – I’m real proud of you, I'd call ya <em>'tite fille...</em>’ He trailed off, a thoughtful smile on his face. 'But you a lady now.'</p><p>‘What does that mean?’ She asked, suddenly, her gaze averted suddenly to her knees. ‘I remember you callin’ it me but I don’t remember any of what it means…. I don't remember any French.’</p><p>He smiled. ‘That ain't no bother.' He murmured. 'Be odd if ya did - it means <em>little girl</em>.’ He chuckled, affectionately at her, surprised at how the warmth with which he had dealt with her as a child so easily returned. ‘Not that you so little no more, though.’</p><p>‘I remember… I remember you singing to me.’ She continued, her eyes meeting his own, tears freely streaming down her face. ‘I sing it to my baby.’</p><p>A pained breath fell from Merriell's lips before he had a chance to stop it. He felt winded, letting out a strangled groan. </p><p>'You remember?' She asked. 'That... <em>Ainsi font, font, font... Les... petites marionnettes...'</em></p><p>He nodded. 'I... I remember.'</p><p>‘What does <em>that</em> mean?’ She asked, picking up the paper envelope from the table. ‘Is that in here?’</p><p>He shook his head. ‘Didn’t think you’d remember that.’</p><p>‘I remember everything.’ She responded, imploringly. 'I've had ten years relivin' it because it's all I had left of you... I remember…’ She screwed her eyes shut, egregiously. ‘I remember everythin’ you’d do to try and protect me… I remember how you’d stand up to him…’</p><p>Merriell averted his gaze down to the white table cloth beneath his fingers, the memories, of which she talked, now prominent in his own mind. The guilt she had been party to such ongoings still festering within him.</p><p>‘I remember how we’d go to her apartments and you’d argue in the doorway with her ‘til she let us in… and… I remember when we’d go walkin'… we used to go to that big park with the trees… and you taught me how to spit from that bridge… where’s that?’</p><p>In spite of himself, tears leaked down Merriell's face.</p><p>‘Jackson Square.’ He answered, stiffly, wiping at his eyes. ‘I didn’t… I didn’t know you’d remember that… I didn’t… didn’t want you…’</p><p>‘You bought me that pin.’ She continued. ‘At the station you gave me that pin with the cat on it.’ She reached for his hand on the table. ‘I <em>still got it</em>.’ She continued desperately. ‘I’d…. I’d have brought it if…’</p><p>
  <em>If I’d have known this were the last time I’d ever meet you.</em>
</p><p>‘... and… on the train… you told me you loved me… that was the last thing… the last thing we said to each other… you were the only person who ever told me that... until I met Danny… only you… but I say it to my little girl every night and we do the actions…’</p><p>Merriell's lips trembled, his tears thundering thick and fast. No matter how much he scrubbed at them, more fell in their place. His gaze was set firmly against his new trousers, a thread was poking through the seam of his thigh.</p><p>‘She ain’t a year old and she does the actions.’ Her voice wavered. ‘So I don’t give a shit about your letter or <em>where we come from</em> or <em>where she’s buried</em>.’ She stated, defiantly. ‘I give a shit about you.’ She paused. ‘And I want you to know it wasn’t your fault.’</p><p>The statement landed like a torrent of iced water gushing over his head. He looked up at her, his heart rate suddenly increasing.</p><p>‘It wasn’t your fault, Merriell.’ Essie repeated, tears dripped from her eyes as she squeezed his hand tightly. ‘They<em> fucked us</em>.’ She hissed, furiously. ‘You were a... little boy... I mean you were what like twelve, thirteen years old wandering around a city in the middle of the night with a toddler beggin’ on your Mother’s doorstep for food. That wasn’t <em>your fault</em>. Everythin' that happened after, sendin' me away, Daddy... that <em>wasn't your fault</em>.’</p><p>She jerked at his hand, angrily, urging some response from him.</p><p>‘Do you know that?’</p><p>He stared at her, unable to form any cohesive sound over the thundering of his heart in his chest. <em>No, I don’t.</em></p><p>‘And I ain’t mad at you for it.’ She insisted. ‘I’ve never blamed you for it – thought there was anything you could’ve done different.’ She paused. ‘You’d starve to give me a dime.’</p><p>He huffed a tight sob. <em>She really did remember everything</em>.</p><p>‘Were they nice to you?’ He whispered, urgently. ‘At the farm? Were they nice? Not like lovin' nice... but... decent? Good to you? ... Kept you safe? Kind to you?’</p><p>She smiled at him. ‘Yes.’ She lied.</p><p>‘And your husband... Danny? He kind now?’</p><p>‘Yes.’ She repeated, insistently. ‘He's from here - we're up seein' his Mom, they live in the next town over... and he’d <em>love</em> to meet you. ’</p><p>Merriell smiled, sniffing. ‘Another time, Esther Marie.’ He stated, drying his eyes. ‘Another place... we’ll... we'll have all the time we need.’</p><p>She raised her gaze to the ceiling for a moment, clearly suppressing a sob attempting to arise there at his statement. Yet she said nothing. </p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>‘Is that my name?’ She managed, after several moments. 'Esther Marie? All that's on my paperwork was Essie Shelton.'</p><p>He furrowed his brow, before he nodded.</p><p>‘Esther Marie Shelton – born on 8th June, 1928. Named after our Maw-Maw, a healer and she healed you good – first baby in five or six not to snuff it.’</p><p>She murmured beneath her breath, shaking her head, a look of incredulity on her face. She looked at him, as though he held the secrets to the entire world.</p><p>Merriell smirked. ‘And you say you don’t need my letter.’</p><p>‘Don’t.’ She shrugged, with that defiant quirk of her eyebrow that he still knew so well. ‘Just need you.’</p><p>He smiled.</p><p>'C'mon now, let's get your somethin' to eat.' He interjected, suddenly.</p><p>He cleared his throat, gesturing to one of the waitresses who had clearly been giving the pair a wide birth. Unwanting to interrupt such an emotional exchange between the two.</p><p>'So you a Christian, you say?' He asked, reaching to light another cigarette, as he offered her one. The waitress gesturing she would be over in a minute. 'Tell me, Essie. You ever read <em>Lot and his Daughters</em>?'</p>
<hr/><p>Merriell's chest was on fire as he stumbled forward in the ticket queue. An entire afternoon of suppressing his ails, paired with the emotional turmoil of the day had been laborious on him. He was exhausted, his energy levels utterly depleted. He needed his medication and he needed to rest.</p><p>Yet, in spite of how much pain he was in, he couldn't help the feeling of peace that filled him. It was sickening, he supposed.</p><p>Not that he cared. Even a little.</p><p>Because, he had a family. After so long of feeling so alone, the knowledge that there were people out there who belonged to him was comforting.</p><p>
  <em>Nancy Lorraine Farmer. </em>
</p><p>It was the most beautiful name he had ever heard, and nothing short would have fitted her.</p><p>His niece. His niece, Nancy.</p><p>He wondered what he had been doing on July 23rd, 1948.</p><p>Stewing, most probably.</p><p>How he wished he had the time to go back, if nothing but to send his letter earlier. He would have done anything to have met her. His niece, Nancy. </p><p>But he'd met her Mother. His baby sister. Who had grown into everything he had ever dreamed she would be, and more.</p><p>She was funny, he had found. Raucously funny, with a love of Egg Salad sandwiches and Poundcake. She had ordered two servings of each.</p><p>Merriell had enjoyed seeing that; he had only ever remembered her hungry. To have been able to pay to feed her had been nothing short of cathartic.</p><p>She was a seamstress. She'd made her dress and all of the outfits that Nancy wore in the pictures that she pointed out to him. She commented on his shirt; she had liked it.</p><p>He shuffled further forward in the queue, having failed to notice the spaces in front of himself that had opened up. </p><p>Her hug still lingered warmly against his skin. She had been so soft and smelt of flowers, comforting and kind. He would carry that feeling with him until they met again; if they met again.</p><p>If they didn't, he resolved that was alright.</p><p>Because she was loved and to him, that was enough.</p><p>Always would have been.</p><p>Before he had had time to adequately prepare himself, Merriell had reached the front of the queue. </p><p>He stood mutely, gazing at the young man behind the ticket booth who stared at him, expectantly.</p><p>'Can... can I get a ticket?' He asked, anxiety crawling across his skin as he reached into his breast pocket for his tattered wallet.</p><p>He was trying not to think about it too much; what would meet him there. If he thought about it, he was for sure back out. The terror simply too overwhelming.</p><p>All he knew was that he had to go; especially after meeting Essie.</p><p>Even if it went terribly. He had to know.</p><p>Glancing down, he opened his wallet to withdraw the $10 bill sitting there. Absently, he moved his thumb over the picture that sat in the ID section. <em>She sure was a pretty baby. </em>His niece, Nancy.</p><p>'Where to?' The attendant asked sharply, irritable at his lack of forthcoming information.</p><p>Merriell rolled his lip through his teeth, before averting his gaze back to the ticket booth. He took one final breath, the words catching in the back of his throat like his most pained cough. At least his most fearful one.</p><p>'Mobile, Alabama.' He stated.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for taking the time to read.</p><p>I'd love to know what you think! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fun fact - this chapter has been the hardest thing I have ever written in my entire life.</p><p>Why? Not a clue. There have been five drafts, at least thirty hours and a healthy case of my Toomuchitis and this is what has been born.</p><p>We've been waiting; we've been wanting. Get ready for everything to be shifted into fast forward. Sledgefu are back bitches!</p><p>Thank you so much for everyone's endless support. As always I'm blown away by the reception.</p><p>I hope you enjoy! </p><p>T/W: Referenced family rejection, referenced suicide attempt, referenced war and PTSD.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Evergreen; Alabama - April; 1949</span>
</p><p>Spring seemed to have been forgotten by Alabama, Eugene surmised. It had been a long winter. Longer than usual, with an uncommon chill remaining throughout the state's streets and endless fields, one which had usually dissipated by early February at the latest.</p><p>It was an odd feeling.</p><p>Odder yet when he was still wearing a sweater as he returned home from college for Easter break. Eugene's selection of knitwear rarely got more than a handful of uses each year.</p><p>So, for it to almost be summer, and him to continue to be adorned in his array of argyle woollens was as though the world had fallen dystopian. As though she so desperately wished to cling to the winter month's that she had forgotten entirely of the bloom of spring. The hope which accompanied the lengthening evenings and the beauty of the first flowerings of blossom.</p><p>At least, that was how Eugene felt. For over the years he had found himself to be sickened by winter. Instead of immersing himself in the festivities of Yuletide joy, winter reminded him of a time he so desperately spent his days trying to forget. The chill of December with snow teaming against a single-paned window, the warmth of a body pressed against his, chilled tile corridors down which laughter and shouting echoed, Christmases of uncertainty, trains of broken promises. Pain. </p><p>Yes, 'painful' was an apt description of how Eugene regarded winter, of which he had many in the recent years. </p><p><em>Make it until spring. </em>He would say to himself. <em>Just until Spring. </em></p><p>When Spring rolled around he was used to the absence. The Pacific had born no seasons other than balmy, summer nights - oppressive heat and airless skies.</p><p>But China? China had been only winter. In reality, they had arrived a little into Fall, yet after years of endless sun any temperature beneath boiling felt unpleasantly chilly. He would have required at least one sweater then, Eugene was sure, if he had not been accompanied by his own personal kowtower during their every moment of privacy. Perhaps then he may have actually felt the cold. </p><p>Yet he hadn't. It was only upon his return to America that Eugene truly remembered what the cold felt like. If he were truthful, it was a feeling he carried daily. From the most frozen nights to the most fervid afternoon. No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. The agonising chill of absence.</p><p>He didn't look for him in crowds anymore, that was progress. Then again, that was only because he chose not to pay attention to the faces of the throngs of people he passed on a daily basis.</p><p>If he were truthful, Eugene would admit to the fact that he wouldn't have to peruse crowds for that one particular face. Would know his face, his softness of head, the curve of his ears, the softness of his eyes, the sharpness of his jaw. Would know him entirely; completely. There were some things a lover never forgot. </p><p>No, all he had to do to reach Spring was simply never speak his name. Not to himself or to others. To keep him entirely separate from every ounce of his being, both during his waking hours and his slumber. For, through sheer will alone, Eugene found it was only within his darkest nightmares that Mer... that Snafu existed.</p><p>No, he would reach Spring. Anyway, anyhow. He always did. Just like he would reach Summer and Fall, then Winter would return and the cycle would begin again. This year, however? Spring appeared as distant as China itself.</p><p>Yet the presence of his sweater was not the only abnormal occurrence upon Eugene's return from college, that year. No, for he bore another unusual accompaniment to his atypical attire - one which had rendered his brother into peals of helpless laughter as he picked him up from the bus station for the holidays.</p><p>Because 1949 was the year that Eugene Sledge had decided to grow a moustache and no amount of cajoling would convince him to part from it. Not even the newly acquired nickname of '<em>Crustache', </em>as Edward had seen fit to dub him after the one single incident with a piece of chicken at dinner. A name that even Martha had adopted on occasion.</p><p>To his relief, by the time the days since his return had leaked into a week, almost two, they had almost altogether forgotten that the patchy red hair adorning his upper lip had ever not been there and everything was as normal as it was the last time he had left. Nothing different, everything the same. Exactly how he liked it. </p><p>For everything about his brother's home seemed to remain the same. In fact, it was as though the property were suspended in its own continuum between space and time. Ageless, timeless, safe.</p><p>Eugene was sure the world could end and absolutely nothing about the single-story Cape Cod would change. It would be sat on the exact same patch of slightly overgrown lawn that his brother had not quite gotten around to mowing. The fourth step up to the porch would remain cracked where his brother hadn't quite gotten round to ordering a new one.</p><p>The same vase of wilting lilies would sit in the front window, the same smell of coffee and light cigarette smoke would waft up the stairs first thing in the morning, the same shrill of laughter would echo through its halls each morning and the same sound of bickering would ebb from downstairs as he retired to the attic bedroom he called his own, each night.</p><p>Yes, whilst everything in Eugene's life moved in a perpetual motion of double speed, he could rely on the fact that the house he had called home for almost two years was always waiting for his return. Welcoming, familiar, stable, safe. His port in the storm whilst everything else crumbled around him.</p><p>For he was sure he could kill a man and Martha would still fling open the front door on his arrival, embracing him tightly as she chastised her husband for some new indiscretion. He would still be wanted no matter what he would do. </p><p>That was home was it not? To be loved endlessly, unconditionally, unwaveringly? At least, that was how he had felt with Mer...</p><p>No, home always stayed the same - exactly as he liked it. In fact, Eugene found he was the thing that changed the most each time he returned to Evergreen from Auburn. Less frightened, less broken, less vulnerable, less fragile.</p><p>He tried not to think back on the boy who had arrived on the doorstep of his big brother's house back on that fateful October evening. So broken and afraid of the world. So unsure of himself and his future that he was convinced he had none at all. Haunted by his past, by his ghosts, by his memories. Haunted by... </p><p>No.</p><p>Eugene didn't think much of the past any longer; at least when he could help it. He thought little to the future either, that endless, dark, overwhelming tunnel. Tomorrow was promised to no man, he knew that from experience, and he who saw lucky enough to see tomorrow was not always destined for ease.</p><p>Especially a Southern Queer, as he. In truth? The future terrified him; the uncertainty, the overwhelming blanket of insecurity.</p><p><em>Would he marry, perhaps?</em> One day, maybe. Meet a girl, after all? Realise it was a passing phase? Have a son? Two? Live a normal life in his own Cape Cod, a life his parents' would be proud of? It would be easier, most certainly. The most sensible thing to do. Perhaps the only option.</p><p>What was the alternative?</p><p><em>Would he simply remain a Bachelor? </em>Since his dalliance with Jack down the hall in his first year there had been no one else. In fact, it had been almost four whole years since he had last consummated a relationship. </p><p>He had recognised the signs occasionally. At a dance, in a bar, in the university library a couple of times. Yet the uncertainty had forced him to lower his gaze. Hell, perhaps it wasn't even uncertainty. He didn't think he wanted anything; hadn't for the longest time. Didn't think he would survive the heartbr...</p><p>No.</p><p>Eugene was happy as he was - today. And that was how he spent every day; focused on the now with nothing more than a vague idea of his destination. Because to know where you were going meant a man had to acknowledge where he had been. He was not ready for that. Not yet.</p><p>Instead, he worked hard in his classes, spent time with his friends, enjoyed his hobbies, his studies. Drank far too much on weekends and weeknights, danced with pretty girls but went to further, pitched up at his job at the Book Store on a Saturday and slept in late on Sundays.</p><p>From his experience, he found that such methods of self preservations worked. Many todays slowly began to accumulate in yesterdays. The weeks turned into months and the months, so it seemed, had begun to creep into years. </p><p>He was doing well at college, very well. According to his professors, if he carried on the way he was he would finish the year with honours. Then he would be two-thirds of his way through his degree. One more year and he would be free - to go anywhere, to do anything, to be anybody. </p><p>To run. </p><p>Yet, there were a lot of todays to get through before the year was out. Too many. But he would make it; same as he always did. For this year was different; 1949 was the end of a decade. His longest and worst decade, that had been ravaged by war and degradation and loss and pain and heartbr... </p><p>No, 1950 would be the start of a better time. Of that he was sure. If only he could make it to 1950, then, then he would be able to stare tomorrow straight in the face.</p><p>All Eugene had surmised he must do was get through the rest of the '40s. As easily as he could do. Short of eight months. Less than thirty weeks. Thirty Mondays. Two hundred and ten todays. He could do that easily.</p><p>Easily.</p><p>Easily.</p><p>The notion was a bizarre concept, he felt. Eugene had never quite managed to learn how to accomplish things in such a manner - <em>easily.</em></p><p>From being a small boy, his own stubbornness had taught him there was no his way or the high way - there was only his way. His way was the high way. He had always been a martyr for a cause. Enjoyed it, almost. </p><p>When the war broke out, he always intended to join the Marines; a notoriously difficult faction, solely because his brother had already joined the army. He wanted his own path.</p><p>He had sworn to God it would have been simple to set up a life with a man on his return to the US. Nothing to it; no danger no worries. Would have given it his best shot too. Would have carried on until the day he was beaten to death by the lynch mob. Not that he ever got the chance.</p><p>Yes, Eugene Sledge had never been one to bend to another's will. Perhaps that was why he had seen fit to divulge the true reasoning for his intended absence, that weekend.</p><p>He could have lied; easily. </p><p>
  <em>Easily. </em>
</p><p>But he didn't. For that was another skill that Eugene had most certainly never mastered. Lying - he had always been atrocious at it.</p><p>Instead, he would fester.</p><p>Stay silent, bubble away, struggle, ache, wound himself in his efforts.</p><p>He would never speak again in favour of lying.</p><p>He did. He continued to do. He always would.</p><p>Tonight, was no exception.</p><p>Over the course of the evening, as he sat in his brother's sitting room, Eugene had made the attempt to divulge his news no less than six times.</p><p>Each time he had finally seen fit to broach the topic, his courage had evaded him at the last possible moment and the subject had fallen once more by the wayside. The solitude of silence in favour of the dissonance of a lie.</p><p>Besides, as the small voice inside his head continued to remind him - <em>it was no big deal anyway, nothing even of real note.</em></p><p>Then again, each time he glanced up at his sister-in-law arduously battling with the cross-stitch kit that her Mother had bought for her two birthdays ago, he couldn't help but be reminded that it was a braver man than he who saw fit to bring up the topic of his parents with Martha Sledge.</p><p>Eugene lowered his gaze back to the newspaper in front of him. Attempting, in vain, for the umpteenth time that night, to engross himself in the crossword within. After all, it was Wednesday and he saved the best crosswords from each daily paper for Wednesdays. </p><p>An exaggerated yawn echoing over the voices on the wireless and a spool of thread narrowly missing the top of his head however promoted such a feat into an altogether impossible one.  </p><p>He glanced up just in time to see the small wooden bobbin collide with a painful <em>thunk </em>against the side of his brother's head, before Edward let out an aggrieved groan in response, rubbing the point of impact.</p><p>'Can you shut up?!' Martha demanded irritably, glaring ferociously at her husband from her seat beside the radio. So close she may as well have sat on top of it, her quarter stitched apple laying almost completely untouched in her lap - as it did each week. 'They're getting to the best bit!' </p><p>Raising his eye line towards his brother, they shared a silent exchange, smirking towards one another at her outburst.</p><p>They should have known better by now; for tonight was Wednesday after all, and Wednesday meant one thing in the Sledge household. The Guiding Light was on - and when The Guiding Light was on, any man who made a noise accepted it was at his own peril.</p><p>'Don't you start either!' She snapped, pointing at Eugene with her needle. </p><p>'I didn't say...' He began, but she interrupted him with an aggrieved <em>napph! </em>and throwing her hand up in irritation. They were wiser than to attempt to interrupt her again.</p><p>Silently, Eugene returned to the paper in his lap, earnestly attempting to busy himself enough that ear-bleeding inducing drivel that was ebbing from the wireless would be drowned out by the sound of his own thoughts. It wasn't.</p><p>With his pencil caught between his teeth both Eugene and his brother breathed their automatic sighs of relief as the credits began to roll twenty minutes later - the weekly hell was over.</p><p>Instantly, Edward lit a cigarette, having had the ashtray balanced on his chest for the best part of an hour, in preparation for the 'smoking ban' being lifted upon show's end.</p><p>'I put up with this <em>weekly </em>when you're not here.' He stated, egregiously. '<em>Weekly.' </em></p><p>'And I go and watch those awful sports pictures with you.' Martha countered. 'The things we do for love.'</p><p>'Y'know, Marth...' Eugene murmured, beginning to pencil in his answer for seven down, before changing his mind and rubbing it out. 'That shit's easily twice as dramatic as the damn war was.'</p><p>Edward cackled loudly over his wife's exasperation sigh. 'Ain't that the truth.' He agreed, letting out a steady stream of smoke from his nose. 'They're definitely gonna kill that White fella off.'</p><p>She let out an aggrieved cluck, in response. </p><p>'Why would they kill off Ted White?!' She demanded, furiously. The mere thought of such a prospect rendering her visibly horrified before a look of irritation crossed her face. She sucked her teeth towards him. 'What do you know anyway?!' She objected. 'You don't even listen to it!' </p><p>'You do say that about every character on the whole show.' Eugene agreed, pulling his face in agreement. 'You ain't got no clue who's being killed of or not.'</p><p>A supercilious smile crossed Edward's face as he leant forward with the airs of a man in the know. 'Yeah, well, you gotta ask yourself...' He began, yet his sentence was interrupted. </p><p><em>'What does the character bring to the story</em>?' Martha and Eugene chorused sarcastically, before breaking into peals of laughter at Edward's expense. </p><p>'You only tell us every time the Wireless is on.' She muttered, scornfully.</p><p>Edward gave a deep sigh, folding one socked ankle over the other as he watched the smoke from his cigarette rise towards the patterned ceiling, mocking his wife inaudibly beneath his breath.</p><p>Eugene raised his bemused gaze towards his sister-in-law, who met him with a silent chuckle.</p><p>'If we got a television we could <em>see</em> who's dyin'.' Martha suggested, glancing towards her husband suggestingly. </p><p>'That's an excellent suggestion.' Eugene agreed. 'That way Eddie - you can <em>see </em>yourself bein' wrong you don't just have to <em>listen</em> to it.'</p><p>Edward clicked his tongue, testily. 'Enough outta you, Crustashe.' He rebuked. 'A damn television - around the same time, I start shittin' gold! I ain't appreciated 'round here.' He glared at them, reproachfully. 'I break my back for this family...'</p><p>'You've left the office twice this week because you fancied going golfing.' Martha corrected him. 'And you brought home t</p><p>'<em>My back</em>, Martha Sledge!' He continued undeterred, he leant back heavily on the couch, letting out a deep mouthful of smoke. 'I'd be appreciated other places!'</p><p>'You know where the door is.' Martha suggested hopefully, returning to the intricate needling of the supposed papaya in her lap. 'We'll be just fine if you wanna seek pastures new!'</p><p>'Yeah, and who's gonna pay the bills if I go?' He rebuked.</p><p>Eugene raised his hand absently, having caste his attention back to the crossword in his lap, just as Martha pointed towards him.</p><p>'He can.' She stated.</p><p>'What on his little book shop wages?' Edward huffed. 'I'd love to see Nancy Boy hold down a real damn job.' He answered, derisively. 'I keep you in gin and him in them stupid bird books.'</p><p>Eugene grinned, giving him a bemused look. 'What's wrong with my bird books?' He demanded. He raised an accusatory finger towards his brother. 'You <em>love </em>my bird books.'</p><p>Clicking his tongue, Edward gave a resigned nod. <em>Everyone loved Eugene's bird books.</em></p><p>Eugene suddenly let out a sniff of disinterest at the themed <em>hobbies of the week </em>Wordsearch in his lap and tossed it to one side. Flicking through his accumulated leaves where a particularly difficult looking crossword was situated. With a growl of irritation, he was dismayed to see it already partially filled in, <em>incorrectly, </em>in his brother's disinterested scrawl. He clicked his tongue exasperatedly in his direction.</p><p>‘Eddie, for the <em>last damn time</em> if you insist on fillin’ the puzzles in <em>wrong </em>do it in <em>pencil</em>.’ He muttered, frustratedly.</p><p>Without even casting a glance in Eugene's direction, Edward raised his middle finger towards him, in response. 'It's <em>my </em>damn paper I'll fill it in how the hell I want.' He rebuked. </p><p>Eugene scoffed. 'You are a college-level educated Accountant - please explain...' He began, demonstratively holding up the paper. '... what was going through your mind that you found a four-letter word for <em>fury </em>to be <em>angy.' </em></p><p>‘It fit.’ Edward responded drolly as he blew a ring of smoke from his mouth. </p><p>‘Clearly.’ He refuted, sucking irritability on his pipe. ‘When a five-letter word for <em>an annoyance </em>is <em>panda.’</em></p><p>‘There weren’t enough letters for Eugene.’ Edward answered, sarcastically. 'Could'a fit Genie, I suppose.'</p><p>'What a shock - Eddie fits just right.' Eugene pursed his lips demonstratively, elaborately making as though he were to fill in his brother's name across the squares.</p><p>Heaving a sigh of annoyance, Edward covered his eyes with the back of his hands. 'God, I should've left you in Mobile.'</p><p>‘It’s like having children.’ Martha murmured, exasperatedly to herself.</p><p>Eugene licked his lip, deciding the opportunity could not go amiss. ‘Speakin’ of Mobile – I’m headin’ back next weekend.’ He stated, lightly.</p><p>There was a moment's pause as the statement settled, like the dust settling around a car speeding up a country lane. A position Eugene wished he was in as he watched the way his fellow occupants of the room turned to him with a look of outraged incredulity.  </p><p>Eugene had been home five times since that fateful day in the Fall of 1947, each time accompanied by his brother. <em>Safety in numbers, </em>Edward had assured him.</p><p>He was right.</p><p>For each visit had been an arduous task, accompanied by an unspoken elephant that did not take over a single room, but the whole house. Nay - the entirety of Mobile itself.</p><p>He was sure his absence from the family home had not gone unnoticed since his departure and he had, at least at some point, been talk of the town. Yet, as his brother often assured him, <em>folks talk of all sorts of shit - don't mean it's true. </em></p><p>Yet it was not the thoughts and opinions of the local busybodies and housewives that plagued him. No, his grievances fell far closer to home, or what had been home, than that.</p><p>His Mother had seen him a further handful of times. Having come to Auburn during his semesters or Eugene having travelled down to meet her for dinner. His Father had been conspicuously absent from each meeting, which had left him both saddened and relieved in equal measures. </p><p>Yet it was not the thoughts of the local scandalmongers and housewives that his Mother entertained that plagued him. No, his grievances fell far closer to home, or what <em>had been</em> home, than that. It was her.</p><p>Despite how long it had been since his hastened departure from the house, he could never shake the look of hurt and confusion that would unquestioningly have adorned his Mother's face upon realising he had gone. Her sheer bewilderment to his reasonings, her pain at the benevolent conspiration that her sons and husband held a secret from her. For his Father hadn't uttered a word, despite how much she would have pestered him, appealed to him, begged him.</p><p>For she had most certain begged Eugene. Not in so many words. She hadn't needed to. He had always been an excellent judge of character... of everyone except...</p><p>No, she had never asked him, not outright. He would have told her if she had. Perhaps. Or, he would simply have disappeared, instead. For she would have found the truth far more harrowing than her son's absence. Then again, there was perhaps a part of her who knew. Part of her that had guessed - the truth. The awful, depraved, humiliating truth.</p><p>He had seen her a further handful of times, out of the house. Either she having come to Auburn during his semesters or Eugene having travelled down to meet her for dinner. His Father had been conspicuously absent from each meeting, which had left him both saddened and relieved in equal measures. </p><p>
  <em>'What are your plans, Eugene?' 'I think it's a far better idea you come home for the summer than whole up with your brother.' 'Procrastination is the thief of time - you need to be screwing your head on young man, what will you do after you graduate?' 'You're only doing yourself a disservice.'</em>
</p><p>Such statements rattled around his head constantly. For, despite all she was, she was still his Mother and he still desperately wished her to be proud of him.</p><p>Instead, he had broken her heart. He knew that. It was a fact he had desperately been attempting to learn to live with, a fact that often kept him awake at night.</p><p>Not that they would ever talk about it. They were not that kind of family.</p><p>He'd broken his Father's too, he supposed. For the Father he had loved, the Father he had longed for - both during the war and beyond - was gone. And he showed no signs of returning.</p><p>He left behind a man, broken and cold. A stranger. Who spoke neither anything of nor to his second son, about the events of that fateful day or about any matter else, either.</p><p>His reception was so unforgiving for the misgivings he had discerned his son to be guilty of, that Eugene had, in fact, stopped even attempting to try. His lack of repentance was too ungodly, too disappointing and his Father was embarrassed. His failed efforts of engagement and the continual dismal or almost complete denial of his presence had led Eugene to nothing more than further hurt and frustration. By last summer, he had entirely given up.</p><p>Thus rendering their interaction between one another virtually non-existent. When they did engage, which only occurred in the company of others or at his Mother's instance, they spoke with no more affection that two strangers may divulge to one another in the street. Perhaps about the weather or to share the season's festivities.</p><p>They each found there was little else to talk about.</p><p>Events had come to a head during the Christmas just gone. With the days spent at his childhood home having been so atrocious, that no one, not even their Mother, had suggested they return any time soon.</p><p>Eugene had arrived straight from college the day before Christmas Eve, Martha and Edward having travelled across to Mobile the afternoon earlier. He had arrived to find the house governed by the ominous silence to which he was so used - painful and awkward.</p><p>The family were not due until Christmas Eve night, some Aunts, Uncles and a handful of other relatives. In the past year, Eugene had grown overwhelmingly grateful for the presence of his extended family at such gatherings. The endless conversations at the dinner table allowed him to sink into his plate entirely unnoticed and unaddressed.</p><p>For the dinner guests had grown disinterested in Eugene's wellbeing in recent years. In fact most, he was sure, had declared him to have gone 'funny' from the war. </p><p>
  <em>Odd cousin Eugene, laid out his brother's wife in '46 and ended up moving in with them. Sees a shrink; never comes home, has no girl on his arm, seems too quiet for his own good. Strange boy.</em>
</p><p>Perhaps they were right. Perhaps he had gone funny, odd, strange even. Yet if his transgressions made him such, he would far prefer to be strange than to be like them. - vitriolic and bigoted as they were. </p><p>The festivities passed in a monotonous, monstrous blur. Feigned interest, ill-thought gifts, too much alcohol, too many strained silences. </p><p>A bottle of Sake handed to him by their dick of an Uncle that three years ago would have rendered him into a trembling wreck, harrowed by endless flashbacks of smashed bottles crunching underfoot as they ransacked abandoned Japanese shelters. The thought had even crossed his mind that it was purposeful an attempt to fuel a reaction. For Edward had received socks - no reference to the war in sight. </p><p>It didn't work. He wouldn't let it. Instead, he had simply raised the bottle in Yuletide Salutation and nursed it for the remainder of the night. Just to prove a point. For Eugene was stronger these days, prepared to stare his demons in the face. Most of them, at least, not Mer...</p><p>The worst aspect of that Christmas, however, had been the fact that the strained silences hadn't just been with the families, but with Edward. Who seemed to spend his every waking moment sat alone in a corner, beneath a deluge of endless smoke and whiskey. Unwanting and unwilling to speak - even to his wife.</p><p>Eugene had finally drawn the reasoning from him as they sat on the back porch together, the start of Boxing Day chiming on the hall's Grandfather Clock.</p><p>Why? Their Father had drawn Edward to one side before Eugene's arrival and divulged that he had<em> cancelled all further appointments with Dr. Simms. Additionally, he would no longer be paying for any further that was not college related until Eugene returned home, willing to discuss his 'proclivities'. This was Edward's responsibility to talk to him about and he hoped he could make his brother see sensibility.</em></p><p>They had left the following afternoon.</p><p>Their Mother had cried when they said they were leaving, their Father had kissed Martha politely on the cheek before returning to his guests, having not so much as offered a word of farewell to his sons, and they had left for home.</p><p>It was an agonising drive, silent and fraught.</p><p>Eugene was not sure which part of the interlude had rendered him to tears, he was used to the pain by now. Yet as the streets of their childhood leaked past the car window as they drove, silently, he cried. He wasn't upset, not even overly surprise. More - resigned. That his life in Mobile was truly at an end. His home was no longer that.</p><p>But that was OK, he was never planning on coming back here. Not to his parents' home or to Mobile, perhaps not even Alabama. There was still an itch in the back of his mind that pondered whether it was safe to do so. For despite the fact he had not seen Sid since 1947, he wasn't entirely positive that he would have been able to keep the news of his homosexuality a complete secret. Such uncertainty itched at him whenever he was in town.</p><p>His second thought was to what on earth he would do financially. Despite himself, he was still dependent on the lump sum his Father deposited into his checking account on the 2nd of each month. The withdrawal of such support would instantly mean he had to tighten his belt. He would get by though, with his job and his GI Bill, he could pick up a better job, more hours. It wouldn't be long until he graduated, after all.</p><p>As an innumerate number of crippling scenarios thundered through his mind, Eugene felt a hand reach for his shoulder from the back seat. Despite the fact he had felt he was dealing with his emotions privately, he was incorrect. Behind him, Martha squeezed, her touch warm and affectionate - <em>don't worry; it'll be alright.</em> Supportive; so endlessly supportive, despite the fact he was not her responsibility.</p><p>Not that she cared; she never had.</p><p>Martha had spoken her ruling absolute on that car ride home.</p><p>
  <em>Never again.</em>
</p><p>And it took a brave man to object to Mrs. Edward Sledge Jnr.</p><p>Yet, so it seemed, Eugene was prepared to take on the task of such a man as, from the vitriolic look Martha threw at him at his statement, it was clear that the memory of her decree was far from lost to her. In that moment, he resigned it would have been better just to keep his damn mouth shut. For above all else, he knew he had worried her.</p><p>'You think you're goin' back there to see them?!' She demanded. 'Over my dead body! - We had to near drag you out of that room after Christmas! You missed the first week of school!' </p><p>'She's right, Gene.' Edward agreed, his feigned bravado of outrage instantly disappearing, instead replaced by genuine support. 'And we ain't in any position to be cuttin' money off the barbeque fund for one-off visits to Dr. Simms if ya goin' round willy-nilly upsettin' yourself - you know how this family feels about barbeque!’</p><p>Eugene gave a small smile, grateful for his brother's attempt to interject humour as he purposefully averted his eyes from the direction of Martha's burning gaze.</p><p>Edward took an audible drag of his cigarette. ‘They ain’t even <em>there</em> next weekend – they're goin' to St. Louis.’</p><p>‘To the Potluck. I’m aware - hence the reason for my visit.’ He answered, evenly. 'How do you know?'</p><p>'I spoke to Mama early this week.' He responded. 'What you goin' up to sit in that empty house?'</p><p>'Hang on.' Martha interjected, holding out a hand. 'Your parents are goin' to Missouri for a Potluck?' She asked, her face contorting in confusion. 'Your <em>Mother</em> is goin' to a potluck in the first place?!'</p><p>Edward huffed a laugh. 'Ain't a real potluck, honey.' He stated. 'They just call it that.'</p><p>'It's a get together of the fellas Father went to school with.' Eugene stated, placing fresh tobacco into his pipe before vainly patting himself down for a lighter. 'Just a catch up.'</p><p>'They do dinners, tea party, grab shows.' He drawled, leaning forward to toss his own towards him.</p><p>He accepted it gratefully, igniting the tobacco and puffing to ignite the tendrils. 'It's the first year it's back on after the war.'</p><p>'Hmm.' Martha mused. 'Seems you two are really up to date with your Mother's social calendar.'</p><p>Eugene gave a huff of laughter, clasping his pipe between his teeth. 'My buddy Kenny is back home for the weekend, asked if I wanted to meet him and his sister... I called to invite her for a coffee beforehand but they ain't there so she said I can stay at home - didn't realise the Potluck was back on.'</p><p>'Kenny who?' Edward asked, his face contorted with uncertainty.</p><p>'Samuels.' Eugene answered, smirking as he glanced towards his brother. 'Surely you remember his sister Daisy?' </p><p>A sensible man would have suppressed the way his face lit with joy at the sound of another woman's name in front of his wife. Then again, Edward Sledge was never sensible, and it was several seconds before he forcibly had to remove his delighted smile as he caught sight of his irritatedly expectant face. Forcing a neutral expression onto his features, he cleared his throat.</p><p>'From High School, sure.' He answered, with feigned casualty. 'Is... is she well.'</p><p>Martha suddenly snorted. 'God, you're an ass.' She muttered. 'Funny how your Dad can take your Mother to St. Louis but you can't take me.'</p><p>'I told you - we ain't goin' to the damn Folk Festival!' Edward responded, exasperatedly. 'I'm not usin' three days of leave just for the damn train!'</p><p>Eugene paused, his brow twitching. He had been privy to the arguments between his brother and sister-in-law regarding said folk festival since his return from college. 'That's this weekend?' He asked. 'Thought it was next?'</p><p>Martha huffed. 'Nope, this weekend and he's still bein' a square about it.' </p><p>Edward rolled his eyes. 'You won't be callin' me a square when you want a vacation this summer.' He rebuked.</p><p>'If it's this weekend why don't you fly with Mother and Father?' Eugene asked, with a look of confusion.</p><p>The statement settled like a bomb across the living room, Edward suddenly flinging himself into a sitting position, as he shot him a furious gaze, Martha spinning towards him with a look of incredulity across her features.</p><p>'They're goin' in an aeroplane?!' She asked, her mouth hanging open.</p><p>‘Sure they are.’ Eugene responded, heedlessly, puffing repetitively on his pipe to evenly ignited all the tobacco within it. ‘They'll fly with the Andersons - he owns Waterman Airlines. Went to Medical School with Father, dropped out to become a pilot, they'll land at the airport in St. Louis.’</p><p>'Eugene!' Edward admonished, his eyes widening in warning.</p><p>He glanced up.</p><p>'Stop talkin', you moron.'</p><p>'You know the owner of an Airline?!' She demanded, spinning towards her husband threateningly. 'You knew we could fly?!'</p><p>Eugene grinned as he watched him recoil, suddenly the entire scenario slipping into place. Delightedly, he nodded emphatically. 'Of course he knew - we're invited every year.'</p><p>'Christ above, I hate you.' Edward hissed, furiously.</p><p>'Edward Sledge!' Martha admonished. 'Why don't you want to go to the Folk Festival?'</p><p>'Because I ain't payin' stupid money to watch a bunch of Mary-Ellen's perform!' He objected as Eugene watched them spat delightedly. 'Why pay?! I'll perform for you for free!'</p><p>'Please don't.' He interjected, yet Edward persisted unperturbed.</p><p>'There once was a man from Nantucket, endowed with an obscenely...'</p><p>'Edward, if you finish that sentence I swear to God I will divorce you!' Martha snapped. 'And if you don't take me to this damn folk festival then I'll divorce you for that too!'</p><p>Eugene smirked satisfactorily as the pair suddenly descended into their umpteenth argument over the matter. Climbing to his feet, he tucked his paper beneath his arm and slipped from the room, resolved that the next time he needed to broach a difficult subject with them he would simply rat his brother out for something, so that his own misdescriptions would seemingly pale in comparison.</p><p>It was a solid ten minutes after he had settled himself at the kitchen table that his brother appeared in the doorway, muttering beneath his breath as he stormed towards the bureau, reaching for the phone directory.</p><p>'You going to Missouri?' Eugene asked, not looking up from his paper.</p><p>'Of course, we're goin' to damn Missouri.' He answered, frustratedly. 'And I now need to find the number for the box office to book the damn tickets when I get to work and I have to call Mother and she wants a new damn dress.' He sucked his teeth as he slammed the heavy book onto the kitchen table. 'We need a damn seamstress in the family - would save me a fortune.' He glared at him. 'This is your damn fault, asshole.'  </p><p>Eugene smirked, wearing a satisfied expression. 'She ain't mad at me now though, is she?'</p><p>In spite of himself, Edward smirked. 'I'll get you back for this.' He swore. Braving a glance over his shoulder to ensure his wife was out to earshot, he leant closely towards his brother. 'So tell me more about Daisy.' </p><p>Eugene rolled his eyes. 'She wasn't interested in you in high school, she ain't interested in you now.' He surmised.</p><p>Edward clicked his tongue. 'She just didn't <em>notice</em> me in high school.' He rebuked. 'You... you'll give her my best, won't ya?' He pressed. 'Figuratively speakin' of course - you tell her... you tell her Eddie got married and that his wife is a fine piece of ass.'</p><p>He pulled a face. 'I'll word it a little more respectfully than that.' He assured him. 'But sure.'</p><p>'What's Kenny up to?' He asked, lighting a fresh cigarette. 'He still got that thing in his eye?'</p><p>'Blindness?' Eugene checked, a bemused expression on his face. 'I would think so.' He muttered, with a roll of his eyes. 'He's doin' some doctorate thing at Georgia Tech - Engineerin' - but we're gonna grab some food down the pier.'</p><p>Edward nodded, approvingly. 'Who the hell'd've thought you were goin' on a dinner date with Daisy Samuels?!'</p><p>'Ain't a date. It's a catch up.' He refuted. </p><p>'Eugene, she is Daisy Samuels!' He insisted, outraged. 'A man does not go on a <em>catch up </em>with a woman like that! Even you've got to admit she is fuckin' beautiful.'</p><p>'Even I can admit she's easy on the eye.' Eugene agreed. 'But...' He trailed off, gesturing. </p><p>Edward rolled his eyes, muttering something disparaging beneath his breath before pausing thoughtfully. ‘Is that…’ He prosed, choosing his words carefully. ‘A… <em>thing…?’ </em></p><p>He let out a sigh, already hating this line of questioning. ‘Is what?’ He asked.</p><p>‘Likin’ ‘em both?’</p><p>Instantly, Eugene stilled, lowering his gaze to the paper in his grasp. He stilled, removing the pipe from his mouth as he sniffed hesitantly. Topics of such conversation always took excessive amounts of effort to prepare for, even after so many years it was still crippling. To prepare himself for the discussion of his name. Silently, Edward watched, recognising the symptoms of his brother's self-preservation instantly.</p><p>‘Snafu did.’ He answered lowly, sprinkling fresh tobacco into the drum of his pipe to busy his hands. ‘Or at least he’d y’know… slept with 'em’</p><p>‘What about you?’</p><p>Irritation ebbed out of Eugene as he let out an aggrieve growl. ‘What<em> about</em> me?’ He demanded suddenly, misconstruing such a line of questioning.</p><p>Edward shrugged, gesturing with his cigarette. ‘Well, do ya ever look at one and think…’ He trailed off. ‘I could go there.’</p><p>In spite of himself, he huffed a laugh. ‘Define <em>go there</em>.’ He repeated, under absolutely no misconception to what his elder brother was alluding to.</p><p>'As in <em>Nantucket, suck it, bucket, fuck it</em>.’</p><p>‘You’re obscene.’ Eugene sighed. ‘I don’t know…’ He murmured. ‘Sometimes but…’ He trailed off. ‘I’d <em>Nantucket, suck it, bucket, fuck it</em> Kenny easier.’</p><p>Edward made a retching sound in his throat covering his mouth with his fist. ‘Naw.’ He answered with a wave. ‘Naw… too far…’ He pointed an accusatory finger. 'You're a <em>deviant!' </em>He objected. 'Because of <em>you </em>not only do I have an image of my brother <em>Nantucket, suck it, bucketing</em> Kenny Samuels but I have to go on a plane with Felicity damn Anderson and spend a weekend at some shitty folk festival!'</p><p>'Well - if you insist of cheating on Felicity damn Anderson with the Maypole Queen sometimes it comes round to bite you in the ass.'</p><p>'God, I wish you'd choke on your own suck it, bucket.'</p><hr/><p>With his hands slung firmly into his pockets, Eugene chewed thoughtfully on the bit of his pipe as he watched Edward and Tee load the boot of his Father's car beneath Martha's hawklike scrutiny. He straightened up as she turned, walking towards him, her face almost splitting in two from her excitement for the upcoming weekend.</p><p>'You ready?' He asked, with a smile as he withdrew and she nodded, delightedly, before adopting a more serious expression. </p><p>'Now, you be good.' She murmured, smoothing down the lapels of the front of his bomber jacket. 'You've got the number of the hotel in case you need anything?'</p><p>'Martha, he ain't five.' Edward admonished from the car.</p><p>She span around, glaring at him over her shoulder. 'Don't matter how old he is - he's <em>ours!</em>' She rebuked, raising her eyebrows at him irritably.</p><p><em>'He's ours.'</em> Edward mumbled derisively, beneath his breath. 'Swear y'should've married him.'</p><p>'There's still time.' She answered, bitingly, glaring towards her husband.</p><p>He pulled a face back at her, his eyes betraying the adoration he held for her. With a smile, she turned back towards Eugene.</p><p>'Don't do anything stupid.' She admonished, sternly. 'Y'hear?'</p><p>He nodded, with a smirk. 'Yes, Ma'am.' He answered. 'Go on, you're gonna miss your plane, Mrs. Sledge.'</p><p>Martha beamed. 'I'm so excited I could be sick.' She stated, with a grin.</p><p>'Don't be sick until after you've eaten the lobster.' He insisted, drawing her in for a hug. </p><p>'Don't be sick at all - I've prepaid $10 for that!' Edward interjected, sternly.</p><p>Behind them, there was a snap of the front door and Eugene turned to see his Mother and Father appearing from the foyer.</p><p>'Are you sure we can't tempt you, Eugene?' She asked, smoothing down her new mint green two-piece with a matching broach, as his Father carried their bags towards the car, passing them towards Tee who stowed them in the boot.</p><p>'No thank you, Mother.' He answered, politely, bending to kiss her goodbye. 'Have a wonderful time.'</p><p>'Thank you, darling.' She murmured, patting his cheek affectionately. </p><p>Out of the corner of Eugene's eye, he noticed his Father lurking awkwardly upon the gravel driveway.</p><p>'I really don't think it's a good idea you stay here without us.' He interjected, stiffly. </p><p>Behind him, Edward pulled a face of derision as Eugene raised his pipe back to his mouth in an effort to hide his smirk.</p><p>'Edward, it's his home!' His Mother answered, frustratedly. 'Why ever would it be a bad idea?!' She eyed her watch pointedly. 'We're going to be late.' She added. 'Goodbye, darling - the number for where we're staying is by the phone.'</p><p>He kissed her one more time and watched as his brother helped her into the car. To his side, his Father buried his hands in the pockets of his overcoat before he let out a low breath.</p><p>'You mind yourself, Eugene; I don't want to hear of yourself getting in any kind of trouble.' He stated, guardedly.</p><p>Eugene smirked. 'Wow...' He murmured, puffing on his pipe as he buried his hands back into his pockets. 'Two whole sentences today, Pop... what have I done to deserve such a treat?'</p><p>For a moment, it looked as though something close to a smile ghosted over the features of his Father's face. Yet the moment he had recognised it, it was gone and his usual expression of pained ambivalence returned. Without a further word, he turned and climbed into the car, shouting to his brother that they needed to leave.</p><p>Silently, Eugene lowered his gaze, swallowing against the ache at the back of his throat before he raised his hand to wave at his departing family. <em>'Bye, Dad.' </em>He mouthed to himself as, with a crunch of gravel, the Ford Le Buic began to draw out of the driveway.</p><p>Taking a seat on the bottom step of the front porch to finish his pipe, Eugene began to feel sweat prickling at his neck, the familiar pangs of balmy Alabama warmth beginning to heat him.</p><p>Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it beside him, rolling his checkered shirt sleeves up to his elbows. It appeared Spring was on its way, after all.</p><p>He kicked out at the chunks of stone at his feet, a feeling of unfamiliarity settling deep inside him as he found himself alone at home for the first time in years.</p><p><em>It's only a weekend, </em>he thought firmly. <em>Sunday night you'll be home and it'll all be back to normal.</em></p><p>Yet little did Eugene know was that after that weekend nothing... nothing... would ever be 'normal' again.</p><hr/><p>Halfway through the evening, Eugene had categorically surmised that agreeing to see Kenny again was one of the worst mistakes he had made since returning from the war. </p><p>Despite having been together all throughout their school years, as children, they had never been what one may regard as 'friends'. In fact, for the life of him, Eugene could not recall a single instance of them having socialised in the twelve years they had known one another.</p><p>No, it had been the war which had brought he and Kenny together, for they had been the last two remaining boys from their year group at Baker High who had not joined up to assist the war effort in some way or another. Kenny, who had been born blind in one eye, was unable to join in any capacity, Eugene, during that time, fully expected that he too would miss out on the war.</p><p>In many respects, he wished he had.</p><p>During those agonising months, they bonded over their shared heartbreak and frustration. Together, they had put the world to rights as they regarded any able man who did not fight a coward and they wished with all their mights that they were able to have their chance to go and fight the enemy, to save the world, or at least die trying.</p><p>With hindsight, Eugene could acknowledge just how ignorant they had been, how infuriatingly naive.</p><p>After his murmur had passed and he had left for Boot Camp and Kenny, in turn, had gone off to college to begin his degree in Engineering. The pair had since lost touch.</p><p>It was not half an hour into the meal that Eugene had been able to discern exactly why he had allowed that to happen. For not only was Kenny so infuriatingly, enragingly dull, he was also a self-absorbed, ignorant piece of shit with an opinion on everyone and everything.</p><p>They had met on the pier just after seven, at the new bar and grill which had opened in summer.</p><p>Daisy was indeed as pretty as Edward had recalled, Eugene smirked to himself as she asked after him the moment they were seated - he would be delighted when he heard about that. Yet Eugene never got the opportunity to divulge how his new sister-in-law was <em>a fine piece of</em> <em>ass, </em>as had been requested of him. For Kenny spoke over every other topic of conversation at the table, about himself and his doctorate and his political stance and his new girlfriend and everything else Kenny related.</p><p>Eugene had attempted to state how nice it was that the last vestiges of the armaments which had been installed along the seafront during the war had been removed. Kenny scoffed and regarded it a complete waste of money - they'd be back at war by '55 with the Russians. </p><p>Eugene insisted he hoped not, declaring he had had enough of war to last him a lifetime. Kenny chastised him about supporting the war effort.</p><p>Eugene hastily changed the subject. Instead asking Daisy about herself, what was she doing? Was she working, at school, still at home? Kenny answered each question on her behalf, putting forward his opinion on each matter, as he did so.</p><p>Eugene enquired after their parents. Kenny enquired how his dog had died.</p><p>After that, Eugene declared the evening to be dying a slow death and had one eye trained on the ticking hands of his wristwatch. Which, for some unfathomable reason, suddenly appeared to have broken for no matter how much he willed it, time appeared to be standing almost entirely still.</p><p>The place itself was nice enough. There had been a lot of investment in the town in his absence, new restaurants and bars - especially along the waterfront.</p><p>'Peppy's Bar and Grill' was pleasantly busy, not packed enough that the hairs of his neck would stand alert and place him into hypervigilance, not quiet enough for him to begin to fixate on another dinner guest and get it into his head that such a man or woman reminded him of the war. Just right.</p><p>The meal itself was also thoroughly pleasant. Eugene had ordered a steak sandwich and found that he was able to enjoy his meal in peace for the most part. For Kenny spoke the whole way through with no needed interjection from anyone else at the table. Hell, less spoke, more <em>complained</em>...</p><p>About the meal and the restaurant and his shirt and the weather and the couple behind them and the Negro family who had moved in on his block and the president and how he hadn't found time to polish his shoes before arriving and the car journey over and his parents and hell... the fact it was Friday.</p><p>In fact, when the suggestion came that they paid their bill and went back to Eugene's parents' house for a nightcap, the only reason he agreed was on the account that he had not, in fact, been listening. Instead, he had spent the best part of ten minutes watching out of the window as a man with dark curls fished from the edge of the pier.</p><p>To his irritation, Eugene, who remained every inch the Southern gentleman to his fault, found himself even paying for the cab fare as Kenny garnered himself the front seat.</p><p>However, it had not just been Kenny, Eugene and Daisy who returned to Georgia Cottage. For as they had waited outside the restaurant for their car to arrive, Daisy had bumped into a girlfriend - Yvette, a pretty girl with light hair - and she too joined to party back to his Father's liquor cabinet, at Kenny's insistence. It was almost as if it had been... planned.</p><p>Upon their arrival, Eugene was dismayed to find the house empty, having hoped the presence of one of the staff would hurry along his guests' departure. However, he had no such luck. For Annie had clearly locked up and returned home long before his return and would not be back until Tuesday, when his parents were due to return - that was it now, he was alone for the weekend. He would not be at all surprised if Kenny were still there.</p><p>They must have made a merry picture.</p><p>Daisy, staring emptily into the bottom of her wine glass as she zoned out of her brother's constant droning - how the girl had survived twenty-five years with such a brother was any body's guess. Kenny himself held centre stage, aweing aloud at the new wireless Eugene's parents had purchased the summer just gone, whilst he denounced the evils of televisions, regarding them as a government conspiracy to place listening devices in the homes of consumerist America.</p><p>Eugene nodded along mutely and would have been completely unable to repeat any ounce of the deluge of twaddle that was falling from his 'friend's' mouth.</p><p>Yet it was Yvette that formed the icing on the cake. She sat attentively at Eugene's side, drawing up the velvet footstool and leaning against the arm of his chair - despite the fact he had offered her his seat four times. Each time Kenny paused for breath, it was Yvette's turn to make conversation during which point she would lay a hand against Eugene's wrist and he felt there were only so many times he could subtly withdraw his arm.</p><p>He was stuck. Like a prisoner to the Jap's, however, he felt a Japanese captor would have made for less annoying company than Kenny and Yvette</p><p><em>No. </em>He chastised himself. <em>She was a nice enough girl. </em>She was just... a girl - and a dull one at that.</p><p>He nodded politely as she wittered on, revealing how she worked in the bakery in town, she'd worked there since finishing school - he even went so far as making a noise of interest each time he told her. Thus far he was up to five counts.</p><p>She also liked croissants and a fancy pastry called Beignets. He shut his eyes and let out a sigh - <em>of course, she did.</em></p><p>He told her a little of his degree, she seemed interested enough, he felt. However, when she asked him which part of Chemistry was his favourite, he simply didn't have the energy to correct her. </p><p>'You ever think about rejoinin' the army, Sledge?' Kenny asked as Eugene was halfway through his second bourbon, listening intently to how Yvette had just began planting vegetables in the window box outside her bedroom for summer. </p><p>He scratched his moustache, blinking as he took a moment to re-engage his brain for conversation. He smirked, recognising the ignorance behind the statement. 'Hell, you ask a Marine about the Army and he'll lay you flat, Ken.' He answered, lightly sucking on his pipe. 'But no, couldn't pay me enough to. Won't put on a uniform ever again if I can help it.'</p><p>'Was it not fun?' Yvette interjected suddenly, her head cocked to one side. 'The pictures make Europe look lovely.'</p><p>Eugene paused, thinking for a moment he had perhaps misheard her. He hadn't.</p><p>'I'm sure Europe is lovely.' He agreed. 'But I was in a place called the Pacific - Solomon Islands, Okinawa - from the newsreels?'</p><p>She blinked at him. 'Why were you there?' She asked, confusedly.</p><p>Eugene glanced to his left, noticing that Daisy had fallen asleep. He opened his mouth to give a genuine answer but shrugged instead. 'I... was just sent there.'</p><p>'Was it nice there?' She pressed.</p><p>He hummed lightly at the back of his throat, amused at such a notion. 'No, I wouldn't use the word <em>nice</em> I don't think.'</p><p>'D'you still have your Insignias?' She pressed, pressing her fingers to the back of his hands with genuine intrigue. 'Medals?'</p><p>He nodded, moving his arm to grasp more tobacco from his side and feed it the bowl of his lit pipe. 'Yeah, somewhere.' He answered, patting himself down vainly for a lighter. 'Where they are is anybody's guess, though.'</p><p>'Do you not have 'em on show?' Kenny asked, disbelievingly.</p><p>Eugene shook his head, attempting to catch the new tobacco with the existing smoke in his pipe. 'Only gotten 'em out the case twice.' He lied. 'It's the kind of shit y'keep for your kids. Not much else. They're still at the bottom of my seabag.'</p><p>There was a pause as he was suddenly hit by the most excellent idea. </p><p>'I'll go and find them for you.' He announced not bothering to await their reply, simply needing a five-minute break from their drudgery. He almost jumped to his feet in his eagerness to escape the room before flinging himself up the stairs.</p><p>Eugene paused as he reached the landing, stilling completely. He always hated coming up here, especially alone. For no matter how much time had gone by, the prickling at the back of his neck whenever he caught sight of his brother's old bedroom never failed to send a chill up his spine.</p><p>Gripping the bannister tightly, he stared towards the door standing ajar, the room basked in low illumination from the hall light.</p><p>He wasn't sure what possessed him. Couldn't fathom it for a single moment. Yet for the first time since his departure from his parents' house almost two years ago, he found himself inching across the hall towards the room in which he had nearly shot himself.</p><p>He stood in the doorway, barely brave enough to glance around; let alone bear to look towards the window. He laid his eyes against the floorboards by the bed, a psychedelic ache thrummed in his right hand as he recalled the kick his brother had placed upon him. He could so clearly in his mind's eye see Edward's blank expression as he divulged his most depraved secrets from the war. From his war.  </p><p>His breath stuttered in his chest, the sound of the door going echoed distantly. Exactly as it had done in those final moments before Edward's arrival.</p><p>Eugene swallowed, for the first time in months, feeling the all too familiar chill of the Marines creeping into his skin.</p><p>Most painfully, the feel of the harrowing gaze boring agonisingly into the back of his head cast its same familiar itchings. The same as it had that day, when he had so desperately willed their owner to appear to him, be-it it in an apparition or no.</p><p>'You bastard.' He murmured beneath his breath unsure quite to whom he talking. With one last glance around the yellow bedroom, he turned slowly stepping from the room and pulling the door closed behind him.</p><p>He was halfway into his own bedroom in the retrieval of his medals, of whose location he knew exactly, when he heard Kenny's voice droning far closer than it had been when he was tucked safely in the parlour.</p><p>With a terrified curling in his stomach, Eugene lunged towards his bottom drawer, pulling the small wooden case from where it was stowed in between spare sheets before hurrying back towards the top of the stairs. Utterly terrified that Kenny was on his way up and would somehow wind up on inviting himself to stay the night.</p><p>It was as he pulled his own bedroom door closed behind him that, with a frown, Eugene realised that Kenny was arguing with someone. Quite rudely; <em>angrily</em> even.</p><p>He was halfway across the landing when he realised that the front door was open and he was, in fact, quarrelling with someone on the doorstep.</p><p>'Kenny, who're you tal...' </p><p>The sentence, along with Eugene's insides fell away the moment he caught sight of the intruder standing on the other side of the door, their face illuminated by the porch light. </p><p>Instantly, his mouth slackened, his pipe sliding from in between his teeth and landing with an unceremonious <em>thump </em>onto the floor. Mercifully, he would think later, the contents were so overpacked that the impact extinguished any remnants of burning from the tobacco. </p><p>Eugene’s head span and suddenly he wasn’t there.</p><p>It was like the early days when he had first returned from the war, when nightmares and hallucinations manifested themselves into his every waking moment. His hands trembled and his heart pounded, perspiration inched its way against his collar, his skin mottled as shock ran throughout his body.</p><p>
  <em>Instantly, he was back in Okinawa, the desolate expression of the old woman gazing up into his face. The warmth of her body, the tang of her blood. The warmth of her blood as it oozed against the fabric of his dungarees. She was dainty, fragile, like a little bird, and he cradled her as thus, hoping with everything inside him that, for just that moment, she felt safe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He ached at the thought of his own beloved grandmother dying in such a manner, wished he could save her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Would have done anything to save her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His knees shook and his chest ached agonisingly. The guilt was going to kill him. What had become of him? He was a murderer. He had done this. He had killed a Grandmother. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, he couldn't do anything other than attempt to force the thundering of his own blood away from his ears, suppress the overwhelming urge to be violently sick and struggle to put one foot in front of the other. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Using his final shreds of exertion, he forced himself from the shack, down the stairs, all the whilst staving off the vicious urgency to sink to his knees and begin to weep, to weep and to never stop. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was going to die out here, he knew that. He was going to die, an awful, torturous, excruciating death - either at the hands of a bullet or by the mental torture from the Japanese. He was going to snap, he wasn't going to last the afternoon. He was done, he was broken, he was...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Anything?' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eugene's gaze snapped towards the voice. There stood Shelton, he himself looking so terribly traumatised, so terribly small. Frightened. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He opened his mouth to reply - 'She died, Shelton,', 'I'm breaking, Shelton,', 'I'm done, Shelton,', 'Shoot me, Shelton - put me out of my misery.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet no words came out. Instead, he found himself rooted to the spot, staring at him. He was there. He was always there. Shelton was always there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>No matter how terrible, how depraved either Eugene himself or the war became, there was one thing he could always count on. One thing he realised he so readily took for granted.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The fact that Shelton would never, ever leave his side. For whatever Eugene went through, he was never alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because Shelton was always there.</em>
</p><p>Yes, he was in Okinawa.</p><p>He had to be in Okinawa.</p><p>Because there was simply no other explanation for the sight in front of him.</p><p>There on the doorstep stood a pugnacious, chain smoking intruder who continued to offer angry, foul-mouthed diatribe towards the man in the hall, who was clearly denying him entry.</p><p>He wouldn't have had to have seen his face, Eugene realised. Nor the his softness of head, the curve of his ears, the softness of his eyes, the sharpness of his jaw. None of it. Because he recognised the man at the door from smell alone; the tang of unfiltered cigarettes and the familiar warmth of his skin. </p><p>Yes, he would know him entirely; completely. There were some things a lover never forgot.</p><p>Eugene stood, lapidified, petrified to his position on the landing, watching the exchange of the two men beneath him.</p><p>Watching the way he argued viciously, furiously. Yet failing to notice the way that not one single word coming from his mouth was discernable. Instead, he was able to focus only on the drawl of his accent. The familiar lull of his voice.</p><p>The way his face was contorted with vitriol, angry and belligerent, right up until he caught sight of the figure stood at the top of the landing.</p><p>An onlooker wouldn’t have noticed the micro-second change in expression as they locked eyes for the first time. Kenny certainly didn't. Yet Eugene recognised the agony behind his guise from the moment it crossed his face. He knew every ounce of him after all, inside and out. </p><p>He gaped, his heart falling from his body as he lost the ability to do anything, to breathe, to speak, to think – to do anything other than stare.</p><p>‘Eugene?’ The sound of his name drew him back. Kenny was staring at him, expectantly.</p><p>It was then, that Eugene had no option but to accept the fact he was wrong.</p><p>He wasn’t in Okinawa. </p><p>He was at home, at his parents' house in Mobile, he was stood at the top of the landing with a friend from high school stood by his front door as he gaped mutely into the face of the man he had been longing to lay eyes on every minute of every hour of every today he had had since he had awoken on that fucking train exactly eight minutes before pulling into Gulfport Station.</p><p>Yet for some reason, at that moment, he wished for nothing more than for the door to slam in his face and for him to be anywhere in the entire world other than stood on his front porch. For he simply did not have the wherewithal to deal this. For he had spent the last years erecting every barrier around himself to protect himself from the loss of the man stood at his front door.</p><p>'Eugene?' Kenny's voice asked again. 'Do you know him?!'</p><p>Suddenly each of those barriers and every ounce of self-preservation he clung to so viciously fell away and he was helpless to stop it. For there was no running from this, not anymore.</p><p>It fell from him in a gasp, choked out and painful; alien against his lips from the lack of utterance in three and a half years. The sound more biting than if a knife had been plunged straight into his chest. Almost so agonising that he was sure that one must have been, for he found he was unable to breathe.</p><p>‘Merriell.’ He murmured.</p><p>And then he fainted.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for taking the time to read!</p><p>I'd love to know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello!</p><p>It's here, it's time and it's incredibly long - the reunion that we've all been waiting for...</p><p>Grab yourself refreshments, you'll need them and I'll see you in three days when you've finished reading!</p><p>As always, thank you so much for all of the support &lt;3 I hope this lives up to the expectation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Okinawa; August 1945</em> </span>
</p><p>
  <em>There was a breeze for the first time in weeks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A pitiful gasp of air that only one in ten men were privileged enough to experience, yet a breeze all the same. Flocks of almost naked Marines adorned the galleys and makeshift tracks between the haphazard jumble of flimsy tents in which they had been billeted to make the most of such weather. Killing as much time as possible as they awaited their next orders that, if rumours to be believed, were never coming.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet Shelton could not have cared less, either about the weather or about the supposed cessation to their time at the hell mouth. No, all Shelton cared about was locating the occupant of the cot beside him, a cot which had lain empty for the entirety of the day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His heart thrummed and the curlings of panic were itching in his stomach as afternoon began to leak into evening. The sun sat pregnant and bloated in the sky, basking the camp in its iridescent rays as it started its descent across the skyline. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Crossing the galley-way for what felt like the dozenth time, Shelton cried out to a group of sunbathing figures, relishing in the final aftermaths of the day's sun.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Burgie!' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A light head turned to his direction. The sergeant lounged against his stool, dressed only in his cut off shorts, cat-like in his poise. </em>
</p><p><em>'Yeah?' </em> <em>Burgie responded, basking beneath the sun without an affliction in the world. </em></p><p>
  <em>Shelton strode up, leaning heavily against the front post of their tent with a forced sense of apathy. 'Y'seen Hammer?' He asked, allowing his cigarette to hang from his mouth with the airs of a man who was not on a desperate hunt for his missing lover.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'No.' He answered, not bothering to open his eyes. 'Not since this mornin'.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He clicked his tongue, his frustration betraying the underlying urgency in his demeanour. He watched as Burgie cracked an eye open, whilst Redifer beside him kicked out at Shelton's shin, irritated at him for blocking the sunlight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'He was down by the shorefront 'bout an hour since.' He answered, irritably. 'Now get the fuck outta the light.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'He still there?' Shelton pressed, before dutifully stepping to the side. Afraid his trade mark impudence would cause his comrade to withold vital information about Eugene's wereabouts. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'How the fuck should I know?' He rebuked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'What d'you want him for?' Burgie asked, eyeing him with a look of suspicion.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'He got my smoke rations.' He responded vaguely, before turning on his heel and ambling up the track, with as much casualty as he could muster. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once out of sight, Shelton allowed himself to build into a purposeful stride, crossing as much ground as was physically possible without breaking into a sprint. He needed to find him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It took a further ten minutes to find him. Back on Pavuvu, he had learnt very quickly that Eugene had an aptitude for disappearing when he didn't want to be found, he could be there one minute and gone the next and would only reemerge whenever he was ready.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet, as Shelton clambered over a secluded embankment and located a sole figure sat cross-legged halfway up the beach, it seemed, for the first time, he had been foiled. Or, he had decided he was ready to be found.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He watched for a moment, attempting to gauge what kind of mood he was going to find him in. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The previous night had marked their final descent into depraved debauchery. When, tucked inside an abandoned tent on the outskirts of the training field, Shelton had coaxed Eugene from his uniform and resolved the issue of his virginity once and for all. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It had been weeks coming. Every night since Hamm's death had resulted in their desperate fumblings of one another. Well, Shelton's desperate fumblings of Eugene. The impenetrable darkness of the Pacific nightfall provided their own personal blanket of seclusion, broken only by the distant whispering of one their fellow marines crawling back into his foxhole. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>During such elongated periods, Shelton would pin him against the dirt, all hands and mouths and ragged breathing as Eugene gasped and shuddered beneath him. Dark eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched against his lower lip so tightly Shelton were sure he would draw blood, such a pained expression on his face that it would give the impression that he found the entire situation unbearable. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Had it not been the way he had clutched Shelton's head against him with a vice-like grip, he would have been sure that he wanted nothing more than their interludes to cease. Yet they hadn't ceased. </em>
</p><p><em>A single kiss on the elusive night that Peck had snapped had escalated in more ways than either of them could have possibly imagined, crossing any and all boundaries they had previously held. </em> <em>Broken every barrier and restriction which Eugene's respectful, Christian upbringing had instilled within him. Given over to every want and urge they had been suppressing for the last eighteen months of knowing one another. At least, that was how Shelton had seen it.</em></p><p>
  <em>He had thought that was how Eugene had seen it too. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>With fearful eyes and trembling hands, Eugene had watched as Shelton had shed himself of his own clothes, his breath falling erratically against his hollow chest. With a smirk, he had noticed how the flush of trepidation mottled over his chest and shoulders. Be nerves or abject horror the cause, he couldn't quite be sure.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Do... do we...' His voice came out in a broken gasp, sounding strangled against the silence of the tent. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shelton stared at him , brushing down the tuft of red hair standing upright against the back of his head as he tried to gauge the end of Eugene's sentence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Do I...' He amended, letting out a low huff of air. 'Do I need to...' He trailed off, glancing apprehensively between them. 'Do I need to put something on?'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shelton's brow twitched, confusion washing over him before he joined Eugene's line of sight, to see the first swellings of his erection clutched tightly in his fist. He grinned.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Scared you're gonna knock me up, Gene?' He murmured goadingly, letting out a huff of laughter at the sight of Eugene's irritated face. 'Don't think that's what the Uncle Sam Johnnies're for, do you?'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I just mean...' He began, yet the sentence fell away as Shelton swung a leg over his, settling himself against his upper thighs as he shoved his hand away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Just shut the fuck up and kiss me.' He answered reproachfully, grabbing him by dog tags and yanking him forward until their mouths collided against one another. Eugene's lips were soft against Shelton's, softer than he ever remembered anything being. Better. Needed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>For Eugene's lips had been the only solution he had found that made the screaming stop. If just for a moment. Everything stopped when they were together.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He rubbed himself purposefully against Eugene's groin, letting out his own noise of satisfaction when his lover uttered a familiar choked out moan at the contact.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Drawing back slightly, Shelton reached down, moving his thumb against the head of Eugene's now fully hardened erection. A second stuttered gasp fell against Shelton's lips, a trembling catch of air huffed against his mouth as he closed his fingers around the length of him. He languidly pumped his fist against him, once, twice before Eugene let out another strangled groan into his lip, before sinking his forehead into the skin of his shoulder.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'That's it.' Shelton murmured, reaching into his discarded dungarees beside his for his tin of gun oil. 'See, you ain't got shit to worry about than what I tell ya to worry about.'</em>
</p><p>The slam of the carriage door and the barking shout of the conductor awoke Merriell with a start.</p><p>'We'll be pulling into Mobile in fifteen minutes!' </p><p>He snorted slightly, blinking his eyes open and gasping in a lungful of air before managing to acclimatise himself with his surroundings.</p><p>'Fifteen minutes to Mobile!'  </p><p>Merriell groaned, wincing as he stretched out, cracking the bones of his spine before settling himself back against his seat, watching the conductor make his way down the train as he repeated his announcement. </p><p>Raising his hand to his chest, he dug the heel of his palm between his ribs, massaging firmly to alleviate the dull ache that resided there. He delved into his pocket, withdrawing the pill bottle of pain medication, unstoppering the lid and dropping one into his hand. Reaching for the half-drunk mug of now stone-cold coffee from the table in front of him, he tossed the tablet into his mouth before chasing it with the remainder of the liquid.</p><p>A series of strangled chokes erupted from his throat in response to the action. He coughed thickly into the balled tissue he held clutched into his fist, grateful to discover upon inspection that the outburst of phlegm contained no blood this time. A rarity, it seemed, for more often than not, his outbursts left him streaming like something out a horror show.</p><p>Tossing the tissue onto the table, Merriell settled back against the chair behind him, allowing his eyes to sink closed, for just a moment.</p><p>God, he felt ill.</p><p>Sick, dizzy and aching from the exertion of having been unable to lie down and rest for the best part of two days. Exhausted from not having slept properly, overwhelmed from having met his sister, but more than anything? The nausea and anguish settled firmly within him were caused, almost in entirety, by the sheer terror that had settled itself deep within his bones. Terror as the reality of what he was about to do slowly began to sink in.</p><p>Dusk was settling heavily over the sprawling fields as the Alabama countryside whipped past the window. Merriell watched as the rural farmland began to urbanise, buildings growing in number against the landscape as they travelled further and further towards the town centre. To Mobile.</p><p>He could have passed out if he thought about it too hard. If he thought about it very much at all.</p><p>This was Eugene's town, where he had been raised, where he had spent his entire life. These were the fields from he had spoken of so frequently as they sat waist-deep in mud, these were the fields of the home he had longed for, these were the fields that Merriell had been so determined for him to return to.</p><p>He was surprised to find that the fields weren't as green as he had expected them to be. But it was still pretty, all the same.</p><p>Eugene would have watched this exact same view as he pulled home from the war, Merriell realised. He wondered how much of the countryside Eugene would have taken in, been able to take in, at least. They hadn't had a plan, they had realised upon their return to America. Getting home itself had been enough of a feat, not that he had ever been under any illusion that they would attempt to set up home together. His mind had been resolute before they had even boarded the ship back to the States. No matter how difficult it had been.</p><p>He had told Eugene to get some shut-eye, even if it was just a couple of hours. They would get off in Jackson, disappear amidst the crowds of returning military men. Not that there were very many, but there had clearly been enough for Eugene to find his story plausible. He could call home once they had found a place to hole out and say he had been held up for another week. After that they could put a plan together; think properly.</p><p>Eugene had nodded, placated. In truth, he must have been exhausted from the strain of his own thoughts, because Merriell had watched as his lids had grown heavier by the second until he had eventually slumped against the window. His chest rising and falling rhythmically, peacefully. So blissfully unaware of what was to come that Merriell had been helpless to do anything other than stare at him and allow agonised, gut-wrenching tears to inch silently down his cheeks.</p><p>That was where his memories of Eugene had ended, on that train. Whatever became of his Southern Belle after that had only ever been a figment of his imagination.</p><p>What had Eugene felt as he watched the countryside passing the window? As home inched closer with every jolt of the train. Had he been confused? Frightened? Angry, perhaps? Vengeful? Betrayed? Devasted?</p><p>Then again, perhaps relieved?</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He reached onto the table for the cup of water that sat beside his now empty coffee mug and only then did he notice how his hand trembled. He downed the liquid, grateful to find that the effects of his pain medication were beginning to kick in, lessening the burning in his chest. The tablets numbed his feelings too, zoned him out a little and he could not place his finger on which effect he was more grateful of.</p><p>He could still back out if he wanted to. He still had the time. He could stay on the train and sail right out of Mobile, right out of Alabama. Could stay on the line and keep going until it ended. Maybe look Leyden up in New York. Maybe just wander until his days reached their inevitable end.</p><p>That way he would never look back, never face him, never find out what became of him. Eugene would exist solely in his memory and in his dreams, perfectly his.</p><p>He considered it for a moment. One long, fluid moment as he allowed himself to be consumed with the thoughts of how much easier it would be just to stay away. To not say goodbye. </p><p>As if on cue, a gasping flood came pouring from him before he had chance to suppress it, ripping him back to reality from his own thoughts. Copper-infused phlegm came suddenly rising from his chest, bursting out of him with such severity that it came running down his nose. A hand flew to his face, catching the hot deluge in his palm as the other scrabbled desperately for the wad of abandoned tissues on the table as he desperately began wiping away at the mess.</p><p><em>No. </em>He resolved. <em>That wasn't an option. </em></p><p>That hadn't been an option for a very long time.</p><p>Merriell was unsteady of his feet as he stepped from the train to the platform, then again the pain meds usually did that to him, too. Yet he felt there was an air of scurrility to his discombobulation; for he couldn't possibly have made it. </p><p>Not after almost four years.</p><p>The air was thick on the platform, breezeless and heady, as though he were breathing in gas. It made him uneasy, the balmy air causing sweat to drag at his collar. He didn't belong here.</p><p>The sign for <em>Mobile </em>glared ominously, furiously from its position on the station house. Like a warning. A point of no return.</p><p>Merriell's point of no return.</p><p>He took a deep breath. Lighting a cigarette before slinging his holdall over his back as he became aware of an unwavering calm washing over him. A resignation? A peace?</p><p>Whatever it was, Merriell discerned it was a feeling that he had not been able to possess for the longest time. It was distant, like a hazy childhood memory. Hazier than even images of he and his Momma in her mirror. </p><p>He glanced up the platform and located a ticket guard stood by the exit, looking to be giving directions to an older couple. He hung back, waiting until the pair moved away before striding towards him.</p><p>'Hey!' He called out, his voice cracking slightly from misuse. He cleared his throat, spitting mucus to the concrete ground.</p><p>The guard turned towards him, pulling a face of revulsion at the act before failing to hide the mild alarm he was experiencing at the sight of a scrawny, smoking, half-feral looking Louisianan storming towards him. He clutched his coin dispenser.</p><p>'What can I do for you, boy?' He asked, eyeing him wearingly.</p><p>Merriell took a drag of his cigarette. 'I'm lookin' for a house - off a place called Springfield Avenue... you know how I can get there?'</p><p>The guard frowned, scrutinising him from head to toe.</p><p>'Who do you know on Springfield Avenue?' He asked, sceptically, as though the only reason a man such as Merriell would have to visit such a place would be cause some manner of mayhem.</p><p>He rolled his eyes, letting out a low cough as he considered spewing a mouthful of vitriol to the middle-aged guard over how it was <em>none of his goddamn business.</em> He thought better of it.</p><p>'I'm after Georgia House.' He continued. 'You know it or not?'</p><p>The guard gave him an odd look.</p><p>'Georgia House?' He repeated. 'You after Dr. Sledge?'</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>The name caught Merriell off guard. It was the first time he had heard the name uttered since the day he had arrived back in Louisiana after the war.</p><p>Merriell shook his head, suddenly able to pinpoint exactly what his feeling of unsettlement had been.</p><p>'Naw.' He answered, his voice coming out at least half as quiet as he intended. 'His boy.'</p><p>It was the feeling of being on one's way home.</p><hr/><p>Eugene blinked heavily against the wetness that dribbled across his face. He let out a grunt, gazing around himself blearily before suddenly flying up on his elbows, wiping the liquid from his skin. </p><p>Panic instantly consumed him as he stared around himself and up at the three faces peering down at him. Merriell was not amongst them.</p><p>'Take it easy.' 'Are you alright?' 'Wetting a fainter is the best way to get them to come round.' They chorused over the throbbing hum that echoed in his ears and seemed to reverberate throughout his whole body.</p><p>The voices of his onlookers were tinny, distant. He felt hazy like he were under water. Eugene's vision was heavy and an unpleasant prickling of nausea itched across his skin. He raised a hand to his face, scrubbing over his brow as he took a low breath to steady himself.</p><p>
  <em>What the fuck just happened?</em>
</p><p>A delicate hand pressing against the fabric of his shoulder suddenly jerked him back to reality.</p><p>
  <em>Medals. Kenny. Merriell. Landing. Fainted. Awake. No Merriell.</em>
</p><p>The hand tightened around him and he winced away from it.</p><p>'Are you alright, Eugene?' Yvette's urgent voice repeated. </p><p>He nodded, suddenly having the wherewithall to realise how embarrassed he was. How overwhelmed.</p><p>'Fine.' He answered, sharply, breathlessly glancing towards the foot of the stairs. It stood empty. </p><p>'You fainted.' Daisy provided, attempting to pass him a glass of water. 'You've been out cold for near five minutes.'</p><p>He shook his head at the offer, pulling himself into a sitting position. He blinked, his mouth drying up as he attempted to rationalise himself with the sight that had been before him.</p><p>'I've not drunk much today.' He deflected absently.</p><p>Merriell. </p><p>'Wh...' He began but his voice fell away in a stutter. 'Is he still here?' </p><p>'I sent him to wait on the back porch.' Kenny stated, as he followed his gaze. 'He says he knows you from the army?'</p><p>'The... the Marines.' Eugene mumbled as he stumbled up to his feet, all memory of fainting forgotten. 'He's on the <em>back porch</em>?' He asked, incredulously, failing to hide the way his voice cracked at the sentiment. 'Now?' </p><p>'I think you better sit down, Eugene.' Yvette provided. 'You ain't makin' much sense.'</p><p>'I'm fine.' He repeated, firmly. Yet the sentiment could not have been further from the truth. The thought alone was almost enough to make him collapse again. He felt woozy, this wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.</p><p>'He wouldn't leave.' Daisy interjected. 'Causin' quite the ruckus.'</p><p>Someone could have taken a baseball bat to his stomach and Eugene would have found himself less winded, less stunned. </p><p>'Who is he, Eugene?' Yvette urged. 'Shall we call someone?'</p><p>He nodded blindly, brushing her away.</p><p>'Yeah.' He responded, gripping onto the bannister tightly as he began to make his hesitant descent down the stairs. 'Call a cab and go home.'</p><p>'You were about to show us your medals!' Kenny objected.</p><p>'Another time.' Eugene insisted, a heat flooding his body as he became overwhelmed with the urgency to get his unwanted guests to leave the house. He took to the stairs, gesturing for them to follow. 'I tell you better yet - next door, Mrs. Peters, her house boy'll take you home.' He forced a smile, allowing the three to walk ahead of him. 'I'm so sorry, I've come over quite unwell.'</p><p>He felt them eye him skeptically.</p><p>'What about your friend?' Daisy asked. </p><p>'I'm gonna see...' He mumbled, failing to quite decide how to finish his sentence. 'See what he wants and then... go to bed.'</p><p>Each step he took down the stairs could be considered nothing less than a stumble. His limbs felt leadened, like they belonged to another man. The entire scenario felt unreal, like a plot in one of Martha's shows on the wireless. He considered perhaps he was in shock. He had seen enough men succumb to the condition to recognise the signs.</p><p>He considered all of this as his guests collected their things, glancing at one another as though he had gone quite mad.</p><p>'Are you sure you're alright?' Yvette asked, clutching her bolero around her shoulders.</p><p>He forced another smile and nodded. 'Fine, don't worry.' He assured her. 'You get home safe.'</p><p>'I'll call you.' She insisted, leaning to kiss his cheek.</p><p>Eugene nodded, under no impression that he would answer such a call. There was a further minute of pained goodbyes before he finally slammed the door against Kenny who looked as though he was about to turn around to extend conversation. That was not a chance Eugene was willing to take.</p><p>Not three seconds passed following their departure before his legs suddenly gave way beneath him and he sank to the carpet in an overwrought squat. The handle of the door still clutched in his clasp as he heaved in desperate lungfuls of air, moments from hyperventilating.</p><p>
  <em>Merriell was on the porch. Merriell was here. Merriell was... Merriell was... Merriell... Merriell. </em>
</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>With every ounce of strength he could muster, Eugene stumbled back to his feet. His heart was in his throat as he began to move towards the kitchen, the ajar door through to the dining room indicative that this had been the way Merriell had been led. </p><p>He let out a choke at the thought of him crossing the threshold of his home, at the thought of him being here. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. He would arrive at the porch and find it empty. This was just another one of his hallucinations, he was sure of it.</p><p>Later, he was positive it was such a thought that allowed him to take that momentous first step towards the back door.</p><p>The belief he was going to find nothing there.</p><p>Eugene Sledge had walked many a distance in his life.</p><p>He had trekked tens of miles during Bootcamp and even further in-country. He had sprinted, he had marched, he had climbed, he had crawled.</p><p>He had swallowed stomachs full of mud and filth as he shuffled across battlefields on his belly, he had clawed at his own blistered feet with his KABAR after trudging so far he felt like they would fall off, he had run for his life whilst dodging bullets, he had waded through putrified bogs so deep that he had lost the feeling in his legs and vomited at the stench of his own uniform. </p><p>Yes, he had undergone many an abominable trek in his twenty-five years. But never, not once, had he ever undergone a walk as laborious as the endless walk from his hallway to the back porch and with every step he took, the knot of agony in his stomach wound yet tighter. As though a torturous rack had suddenly been erected within him, twisting each millimetre of his innards exponentially with each movement he made towards the man who was supposedly sat outside on his veranda.</p><p>It was at the back door when he suddenly he stilled. Caught in the kitchen as rigidly and unmoving as if he had stood on a landmine. </p><p>For the first time, he noticed the pane beside the handle was cracked. A single split in the mottled glass. He frowned, raising his trembling finger to the line. How long had that been there? He didn't remember seeing it at Christmas... hell, he didn't remember seeing it earlier that afternoon.</p><p>His Father would have noticed that surely? Perhaps he'd have to call a repairman. One good kick and that would be in - a safety risk. Anyone could get in. Especially a man like Merriell Shelton.</p><p><em>'Fuck</em>.' He gasped, taking a shuddering breath against the pounding of his heart. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, desperate to quell his nausea.</p><p>Like it mattered.</p><p>Like anything ever mattered.</p><p>Like anything in Eugene's entire, pitiful life had ever mattered.</p><p>Like anything had ever really meant anything; anything other than the person who was sat on the other side of that door.</p><p>Suddenly a clench erupted throughout his gut. A sudden burst of anger, <em>fury,</em> unlike anything else he had ever felt in his life, exploded throughout him. Worse than the anger he had ever held for any Jap, hell, worse than the anger he had held for every Jap combined. A surge of venom pumping through out him.</p><p>It was instinctual, primitive and it was the only thing that gave him the strength to throw open the french doors. The first thing he was going to do if he was there would be to fly his fist against his nose, fucking break it. Perhaps his jaw too, hell, break every bone in his fucking body just to give him an inclination of the pain he himself had felt every day since their separation.</p><p>Not that he would be there.</p><p>As he took his final step onto the porch, as quickly as his anger had arisen, it fell away, leaving only devastation in its wake.</p><p>For he had been wrong.</p><p>He was not alone.</p><p>Eugene stood there for a moment, in the doorway. Able to do nothing other than stare, agape and trembling, at the figure sat on his back porch.</p><p>There was a silence. A pregnant, anguished silence, broken only by the low chirrups of the grasshoppers across his parents' garden.</p><p>Beneath a thick stream of smoke, with the gut-wrenchingly familiar softness to his head, the curve of his ears, the warmth of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw, like a biblical apparition, there sat Merriell Shelton.</p><p>An agonised moment passed between them before Merriell raised his eyes towards him, barely casting a look in his direction before looking away. He let out a low sniff, giving a glass back over the sprawling darkened lawns before lowering his eyes to the cigarette in his hand.</p><p>'Are you alright?' He asked quietly, his voice scratching as he spoke.</p><p>A low whine that would not have sounded amiss coming from a wounded animal broke from Eugene's throat at the sound of his voice.</p><p>The laboured drawl that he had ached for every day since his return from war, the sound he had expected to remain nothing more than a memory for the rest of his life.</p><p>Dejectedly, he lowered his own gaze to his shoes, screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to suppress the burning ache of furious tears that swelled behind them. He let out a low stream of air from his mouth before finally braving his eyeline back towards Merriell.</p><p>He nodded weakly.</p><p>'Fine.' He responded, his voice sounding empty. 'It was... it was just... a shock.'</p><p>Merriell mirrored the action, nodding his own head before raising the cigarette to his lips. His vision still anywhere other than on Eugene.</p><p>'I bet.' He murmured, lowly.</p><p>He looked older now, Eugene thought. Weary, with darkness around his eyes that hadn't been there during the war, tired in a bone-deep way. Impossibly, he looked even scrawnier than he remembered. Thinner; like he hadn't been eating.</p><p>His hair was neater than he had ever had it in-country, shorter on the sides and a little longer on the top, in far better condition, less sun-damaged. Softer. He was still closely shaven, yet wore a familiar six-o'clock stubble that was so painfully familiar that Eugene could feel the texture of it against the pads of his fingertips. </p><p>It was bizarre to see him without a uniform. Eugene had never given himself the opportunity to contemplate Merriell in everyday attire, had never had the strength to.</p><p>Yet there he sat in a Gabardine navy bomber jacket zipped up to his neck, slouched back in one of his Mother's best wicker chairs, cigarette hanging from his lip, refusing to make any attempt at eye contact as Eugene stared at him. Looking so inexplicably, agonisingly his that he could have burst into tears.</p><p>He opened his mouth, once, twice, three times to try and speak. Yet nothing, not a sound, not a breath, not a single utterance came out. There was nothing that Eugene could do but simply gape at him. </p><p>
  <em>What the fuck was he doing here?</em>
</p><p>'Say something.' He implored waveringly after a solid minute's silence, his voice coming out at least ten octaves higher than he intended.</p><p>He watched as, slowly, Merriell's face inched upwards. As though he were frightened to make eye contact. Terrified of the consequences. His gaze caught Eugene's for a moment before lowering back to his hands. He stretched out his fingers, rubbing his palms against one another fruitlessly.</p><p>‘Hey.’ He breathed, with as much nonchalance as one would greet a colleague in the street.</p><p>Had the statement not made him so apoplectic, Eugene would have laughed. </p><p>‘<em>Hey?</em>’ He repeated, incredulously, his voice sounding alien with the wrath with which it shook. His hands trembled, his legs were about to give way again, yet this time for an entirely different reason. The word was bitter as it fell from his lips. 'HEY?!'</p><p>Never, in his entire life, did Eugene remember a time he had so desperately wanted to cause physical pain to another person. After all this time, after everything he had been through, after all of his suffering that was how he was going to run?</p><p>
  <em>Hey?</em>
</p><p>To his fury, Merriell lowered his gaze firmly back to his knees, giving no further inclination of conversation. Eugene shook his head, wiping his face with a shaking hand.</p><p>‘HEY?! MERRIELL? HEY?! FUCKIN' HEY?!’ He demanded, his sentence reaching levels of hysteria.</p><p>Eugene watched as he looked to flinch at the sound of his voice, betraying an utterance to the shame he was carrying.</p><p>In truth, Merriell had had an entire speech prepared. Yet, from the moment he had lain eyes of Eugene at the top of the stairs, it had fallen away, leaving only silence in its wake.</p><p>Eugene laughed. A callous bark of derision. <em>This wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening.</em> He was going to wake up any moment, back at his brother's house, where everything was perfectly normal and where Merriell was nothing more than a little compartmentalised fraction of his memory.</p><p>Except he didn't wake up.</p><p>No matter how much he willed it, Merriell was still there. Sat, staring at his fucking knees, in his fucking bomber jacket zipped up to his neck, with his stupid fucking cigarette dangling out of his mouth.</p><p>He shook his head, letting out a second huff of laughter before sinking to the seat opposite him and burying his face into his hands.</p><p>'Three years?' He gasped, emphatically. 'Three years?! THREE FUCKIN' YEARS?!'</p><p>He kicked out viciously at the chair in between them, failing to miss the way Merriell winced, visibly this time, at the outburst.</p><p>‘THREE. FUCKIN'. YEARS. NOT. A. FUCKIN'. WORD. AND ALL YOU CAN SAY. IS. <em>HEY</em>?!’ He laughed, slamming his palms onto the table. ‘Do you have <em>any idea ANY IDEA what I have been through?! </em>Do you have any idea<em> - any fuckin' clue - </em>what it was like waking up on that train to find you had gone?!' He let out a stuttered gasp, the anger falling from his voice, replaced only by hurt. By confusion. 'You didn't even leave a <em>note</em>.'</p><p>His voice cracked against the final word, yet be it from anger or from devastation he was unsure.</p><p>'And all you have to say is <em>fuckin' hey?!' </em></p><p>Eugene glared at him incredulously, as he continued to stare mutely at his lap.</p><p>'SAY SOMETHING!'</p><p>Merriell shrugged, before letting out a low cough.</p><p>‘What d'you want me to say?’ He asked, quietly. ‘What d'you want me to say, Gene? Huh? What? What could I say? What <em>do you</em> want me to say....?’</p><p>‘No!’ Eugene admonished. 'No, this isn't about me! This is about you! You left! YOU FUCKIN' TALK!' He flailed his arms furiously. ‘YOU SPEAK <em>TWO FUCKIN' LANGUAGES, </em>YOU KNOW LITERALLY DOUBLE THE WORDS I DO - AND YOU CHOOSE <em>HEY?!</em>’</p><p>‘YEAH!’ Merriell admonished, suddenly finding his voice. ‘What’s wrong with hey?!’</p><p>‘EVERYTHIN'!’ Eugene rebuked. ‘EVERYTHIN' IS WRONG WITH HEY! ONLY YOU WOULD START THIS WITH HEY!’</p><p>‘Not true – other folk say hey.’ He answered, lowly. I</p><p>This was not, at all, how he had intended this conversation to go. Never, in all of the different scenarios that he had envisioned had he ever anticipated Eugene to be quite so angry. The situation rendered him, for the first time in his life, completely amiss of anything succinct to say. </p><p>It surprised him, he realised, how quickly the old veil of anger arose in the face of confrontation. He had not considered himself to be 'Snafu' for the longest time, yet it was clear such a petulance was ever below the surface. Just another reminder of why Eugene had always deserved better than he.</p><p>He flicked his cigarette from the porch, with as much forced casualty as he could muster. For he would be damned if he were going to cry in front of him, his tears though few they had been had never failed to bring Eugene to his knees emotionally and he would not do that.</p><p>He liked anger, he could deal with angry Eugene, furious Eugene, vitriolic Eugene. But devastated Eugene? That was a situation for which he simply did not have the strength. </p><p>Instantly, he drew another cigarette from his pack, holding it expectantly between his fingers it as he took the opportunity to let out a hacking cough, covering his mouth with the forearm of his jacket to catch any fluid which may rise from his chest.</p><p>He steadied his breath, wiping his sleeve against his side in a manner he hoped would not raise any suspicion before lifting his cigarette to his lips. ‘You say hey.’ He added. </p><p>Eugene shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with devastated exasperation. </p><p>‘I would not have started <em>this </em>conversation with <em>hey.’ </em>He answered, a defeated softness to his voice that almost destroyed what little self-control Merriell held.</p><p>‘Yeah, well how would you have started it?’ He asked, striking a match from his pack on the table before igniting the tip of his awaiting smoke.</p><p>Eugene glared at him, with such vehemence that he was forced to lower his own gaze back to his knees.</p><p>He was finding it harder to look at him than he ever thought he would.</p><p>He had forgotten just quite how much Eugene's presence simply overwhelmed him; always had done. The boy had an aura to him that he had never been able to resist, had ached for it the moment they had first met. Ached for him. If it was possible, the years of separation had only intensified his feelings.</p><p>Eugene huffed severally infuriated breaths, as he attempted to quell his burning rage. </p><p>'Anything! Any other possible way in the world damn world! Like, maybe - <em>How are you, Eugene? I miss you, Eugene? I'm sorry Eugene for being such a cowardly fuckin' dick and walking out without so much of a word because I'm a selfish asshole? I've regretted leaving you every single fuckin' second of every single fuckin' day?'</em></p><p>Merriell licked his lower lip; Eugene had always had a way with words.</p><p>‘That would have worked.’ He agreed.</p><p>He nodded angrily, in response. ‘Yeah?’ He demanded.</p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p>‘Yeah?’ He repeated, for want of anything further to say.</p><p>‘Yeah.’ Merriell murmured, braving a glance at him. There was a pause. ‘So… <em>how you been</em>?’</p><p>Eugene laughed bitterly, shaking his head in pure exasperation. He licked his lip. <em>'</em><em>Un-fuckin'-believable.' </em>He hissed to himself, suddenly leaning forward and snatching the cigarettes from the table. He raised one to his lips, yanking his own lighter from his pocket. </p><p>‘Swell.’ He snapped, furiously as he ignited the tip of the cigarette. ‘Fuckin' <em>swell</em>. I’ve… I’ve been great. How have you been?’</p><p>The question lingered, excruciatingly desperate. <em>Where have you been?</em></p><p>Merriell studied his cigarette. ‘So, so.’ He answered, before daring to flick his eyes back towards Eugene.</p><p>He was thicker than he had been. His neck was fuller, his shoulders and chest broader, perhaps an inch taller - he ate well. He'd just the wrong side of lean during the war, the little pooch on his lower belly being the only ounce of fat on him, the rest of him had been all scrawny limbs and protruding bones.</p><p>The extra weight looked better on him. He was a better colour, his arms had a definition of muscle beneath his green checkered shirt. His hair was styled with pomade, neat and respectful looking. His cheeks were no longer hollow, but rounder with a healthy flush to them - he was back to being the country boy he must have been before boot camp.</p><p>Back to being how he should have been. How Merriell wanted him to be. How he was always meant to be.</p><p>He had considered Eugene to be perfect three years ago, with his boyish charm and his kindness and his big words. But now? This wasn't the boy he had left behind on a train. This was the man Merriell had always known him to be - always known he could have been - and he was more beautiful than he could have ever imagined anyone being. Adonis paled in comparison. With one exception...</p><p>He swallowed. ‘You’ve got some shit stuck to your face.’ He muttered, miming by his mouth.</p><p>Eugene glared at him reproachfully. ‘What?’ He snapped, wiping at his cheek for whatever the offending item was clinging to him.</p><p>‘Under your nose.’ Merriell directed, between drags of his cigarette.</p><p>He moved his hand, wiping over his upper lip, feeling only his moustache. ‘Ain’t nothin’ there.’ He rebuked, brow contorting with confusion.</p><p>A lazy smirk dragged across Merriell's face. ‘Exactly.’</p><p>There was half a beat before realisation clicked in Eugene’s head.</p><p>‘You’re <em>unbelievable!</em>’ He admonished, wiping at his facial hair defensively as the familiarly distant pangs of conscious irritation itched in his stomach. ‘It looks <em>fine</em>!’ He snapped. </p><p>Merriell raised his eyebrows, nodding emphatically. ‘If you say so.’ He rebuked, braving his smirk again.</p><p>Eugene lowered his gaze, the sight causing him physical pain. <em>Don't smile at me. </em></p><p>‘What about you?’ He rebuked, defensively - gesturing furiously at him. ‘You lookin’ like a half-starved feral rent boy.’</p><p>Merriell suddenly let out a bark of laughter, failing to notice the way that Eugene winced at the sound.</p><p>‘Only half-starved?’ He asked, his lip curling into a grin. ‘You always were a sweet talker, Cher.’</p><p>The statement settled like ice down Eugene's back, the pricking of tears instantly throbbing against his eyes. He had no anger left anymore, just pain. Just the agony of his own heartbreak in the face of the man who had caused it. To hear his old diminutive fall so easily from his lips was like a stab wound.</p><p>‘Don’t call me that.’ He murmured thickly, shaking his head as he gave a low sniff. 'You ain't...' He trailed off as Merriell glanced at him before lowering his gaze back to the cigarette in his hands. ‘Why are you here, Merriell?’ He asked, quietly.</p><p>He swallowed, suddenly at a complete loss of how to respond.</p><p>‘I was passin’.’ He responded, lowly.</p><p>‘You were<em> passin’</em>?’ Eugene repeated, disbelievingly.</p><p>Merriell nodded, the premise so ridiculous that he almost cringed at the words. <em>I miss you. I need you. I want to say goodbye. </em></p><p>‘You were just <em>passin’ Mobile</em>?’ He muttered, viciously. 'Bullshit - you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something... You wouldn’t be here if you were just <em>passin</em>’.’</p><p>Guilt itched in Merriell's stomach. He was right; he always was.</p><p>‘That what you think?’ He asked, quietly. His voice sounding so empty to his own years that he wondered if Eugene even recognised it.</p><p>He snorted, sarcastically, in response. ‘Like I fuckin' know what to think?’ He answered. ‘I didn’t have a damn clue then so why should I now?’</p><p>‘You tell me.’ He rebuked.</p><p>Eugene’s lip contorted, venomously. Three years of anger and betrayal on the crux of his lip.</p><p>‘Tell you?!’ He demanded, anger swelling in his gut again. ‘I’ll fuckin’ tell you!’</p><p>‘Go on then.’</p><p>‘I... I…’</p><p>
  <em>I’m so fucking angry. I hate you. I know why you did it, but I want to hear you say it. I want to know why you think I'm so much better than you even after all this time. Is this what you wanted? Are you happy? I'm not. You have no idea what these last years have been like. You’ve fucking broken me. </em>
</p><p>‘I've missed you.’</p><p>Merriell looked away.</p><p>He was only aware of the low grunt that itched from the back of his throat as it tumbled out of his mouth. He coughed, wrapping an arm around his narrow stomach to bolster the blow of such a statement as he lowered his gaze back to his legs. He didn't deserve to look him in the face.  </p><p>‘I was goin’ to write.’ He murmured, softly. 'I wanted to. I... I was gonna.'</p><p>Eugene snorted again and Merriell winced.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, that was a horrible noise. Stop making that noise. I don't like it when you make that noise at me. You always listen to what I have to say. You're the only one who's ever listened to what I have to say.</em>
</p><p>‘I’d have burnt it.’ He spat, bitterly. ‘Like you’d fuckin' write… anyhow.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘Biggest waste of three months of my fuckin' life teaching you how.’</p><p>‘I write.’ He rebuked, defensively, instantly aggrieved at the thought of Eugene thinking something that meant so much was unimportant. That their time together had been in any way unimportant. ‘Just not to you.’</p><p>There was a pause as Merriell realised what he had said, instantly his head flew up, just in time to see the way Eugene's eyes lowered, before he leant backwards in his chair, attempting to adopt a look of uninjured nonchalance yet failing miserably. <em>Could this be going any fucking worse?</em></p><p>‘Wow.’ Eugene murmured, flatly. ‘That doesn’t hurt.’</p><p>'I didn't mean it like that.' Merriell mumbled, half on his way to an apology before he was interrupted by Eugene's sudden bark of reproachful laughter.</p><p>He watched Eugene shake his head with genuine amusement, pinching at the bridge of his nose.</p><p>'Why <em>this weekend, </em>Snaf?' He demanded. 'How <em>this weekend</em>? Any other weekend and I wouldn’t fuckin' be here… I don’t even live here anymore!’</p><p>Merriell’s brow twitched.</p><p>‘Why?’ He asked, before his lip curled into a smile. A languished feeling of satisfaction somewhat replacing the biting gnaw of anxiety. ‘You go college, don’t ya?’</p><p>Eugene sniffed, taking a deep drag of his cigarette as he averted his eyes. ‘Yeah, but that ain’t the reason.’ He muttered. ‘I live with Eddie and his wife for the most part... ain't so welcome here any more.’</p><p>Merriell frowned, before a slow, gut-wrenching itch of realisation flooded his body, like ice water down his back. </p><p>‘You’re fuckin’ <em>kiddin’ me</em>.’ He hissed, suddenly furious for an entirely different reason.</p><p><em>They knew</em>. <em>He'd told them. </em></p><p>'What the fuck d'you mean?!' He lunged forward, suddenly prepared to slap him around the side of the head but thinking better of it and slamming a fist into the wicker tabletop instead. 'What've I always told you, Eugene?!' He demanded. 'You got any idea how damn stupid you are?' </p><p>Eugene smiled, a low, small smirk. 'So you like to tell me.' He breathed, a pain in his voice that Merriell couldn't quite place.</p><p>He licked his lip. ‘You’ve missed a lot, Merriell.’ Eugene whispered. 'Not just that.'</p><p>Merriell clenched his teeth, wincing with frustration. ‘When?’ He asked. 'How?' </p><p>‘Last Fall.’ Eugene answered, sniffing, rubbing absently at one arm with his cigarette-less hand as he recalled the incident. ‘My Father found out about…’ He trailed off, trying to work out how badly he wanted to hurt him. ‘Someone.’</p><p>
  <em>Not very badly at all. He hated himself for that.</em>
</p><p>Merriell stared at him, his brow furrowed as he tried to process the information he was receiving. As he tried to suppress the immediate sickening pangs of jealousy at the thought of Eugene with another... with anyone else. '‘I thought…' He trailed off. 'That girl…’</p><p>Eugene frowned. 'What girl?'</p><p>'Screamer, she was all hysterical when you passed out like a damn damsel.' He responded, the thought of seeing Eugene faint at the top of the stairs suddenly crashing against him like a wave as the nausea returned. His desperation to make his way up the stairs, his fury at having his path blocked by the dick at the door, his frustration at being sent to wait outside like an imposition. His sickening realisation that he was just that. 'Yvette?'</p><p>Eugene smiled. 'Oh.' He deadpanned, curling his nose with disdain. ‘Yeah well, you thought wrong.’</p><p>Merriell shook his head fiercely, the thought for some reason making him want to cry. <em>No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. </em></p><p>‘I didn’t…’ He trailed off. ‘You weren’t supposed to…’</p><p>Eugene snorted that same sound again as he glared at him reproachfully.</p><p>‘Wasn’t supposed to what?’ He demanded, bemusedly. ‘Be an Invert?’ He scoffed. ‘What were we then? Cos I was pretty goddamn inverted when you fucked off. What? Get tired of havin' me around?’</p><p>The accusation hurt more than it should have. More than he expected it to.</p><p><em>'Don’t</em>.’ Merriell rebuked, caught between such a place of anger and abhorrence that the vehemence made his voice break over the word. ‘It... it wasn’t <em>like that</em> and you know it.’</p><p>Eugene let out a low huff, shaking his head furiously. ‘No, you see the thing is – I <em>don’t.’</em> He snapped, his own voice cracking with devastation. ‘You just left. You didn’t even say <em>goodbye.’ </em>Despite how desperately he had fought them off, tears suddenly welled against Eugene's eyes, his chest trembled with unspent sobs that had been settled there for the entirety of their conversation. 'You didn't even say goodbye, Merriell.'</p><p>He bit down sharply into his lower lip, staring emptily at Eugene as he spoke. He itched to reach for him; it took every ounce of self-restraint not to, for he knew as soon as he did there would be no letting go. Not again. He didn't have the strength to do it again. Instead, he lowered his gaze back to his knees. As cowardly as it was; it was just easier not to look.</p><p>A bitter silence ensued.</p><p>‘Why are you here, Merriell?’ He asked, hollowly. ‘You ain’t <em>passin’, </em>don’t take me a fool.’</p><p>Merriell licked his lip, shaking his head as he was suddenly struck with the staggering realisation that he didn't have the strength for this. He thought he did but he didn't; he thought he was going to be able to have a flying reunion and then leave. Like he had with Essie; this had been easier with Essie.</p><p>‘I ain’t here for long.’ He replied, quietly. ‘Just stopped by, wanted to see you were doing OK, clear some air then move on.’</p><p>Eugene recoiled, the nausea of his crippling actualisation flooding him. An unpleasant gnawing wrenching against his stomach.</p><p>‘What?’ He breathed, hoping he had misunderstood. Praying he had misunderstood.</p><p>He wanted to wake up now. He didn't like this. He didn't want this. Merriell was better in his dreams; dreams of Merriell could be anything. In reality Merriell was preparing to do what he did best all over again; leave.</p><p>He had been abandoned before; he couldn't take the agony again. It would kill him this time, he was sure.</p><p>‘I just came…’ Merriell trailed off, understanding the conflict in Eugene's voice instantly. <em>This had been a mistake. </em> ‘Just came to say… hey.’</p><p>Eugene laughed, a painful wet laugh. Desperately hoping that it didn't sound a pitiful as he felt it did.</p><p>‘You literally just came to say hey?’ He asked. ‘That’s it?’ He trailed off. ‘You ain’t here…’ He trailed off. ‘You ain’t here to…’</p><p>Merriell looked at his knees. With a gut-wrenching stab, he shook his head. <em>This had been a mistake. </em></p><p>‘You’re such a <em>fuckin' cunt</em>.’ He hissed, his voice ravaged. The anger had dissipated now. All that was left was confusion; pain. ‘You <em>promised</em>. You told me… you told me to go to sleep…’ His voice caught. ‘You told me you’d wake me up.’</p><p>Merriell nodded.</p><p>‘And you <em>left.’ </em></p><p>He crossed his arms over his stomach his eyes trained intensely at the small hole at the bottom of his jacket as he fought against the thick bulge of sick clotting against his throat. He felt his lower lip curl inwardly. <em>Don't you dare fucking cry. </em></p><p>‘I told myself you’d <em>gone to the bathroom</em>.’ Eugene gasped, overwhelmed by how increasingly difficult it was becoming to swallow against the agonising knot in his clavicle. ‘And I waited. I waited for near half a damn hour because I didn’t think you would <em>ever </em>do something like that to me… <em>you didn’t even say goodbye</em>.’</p><p>‘I know.’</p><p>‘You lied to me. You lied over and over and over… you lied and you left like I meant <em>nothing.’ </em></p><p>Merriell shook his head, fiercely. He could make him understand. He had to understand. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ He murmured, imploringly. ‘I wasn’t like that ‘n you know it.’</p><p>‘STOP SAYING WHAT I KNOW!’ Eugene exclaimed suddenly, slamming his palm viciously against the table, anger instantly consuming him once again. ‘I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!’ He trembled, cigarette forgotten and burnt down to the stub as tears threatened furiously against his eyes. He took a breath, the sound coming out in a wet stutter. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s been like? Not knowin’ what happened to you? Where you are? Where you went? If I was ever going to see you again? Not knowing if you were fuckin' dead in a gutter somewhere?’</p><p>Merriell's lip quivered, the truth sitting against the tip of his tongue.</p><p>He needed to know; he had a right to know. He wanted him to know. He had come all this way with the intention of letting him know. Yet as he attempted to open his mouth and divulge his secret, he knew before any sound came out that it was a vain effort. He had always been a coward, just like his Daddy.</p><p>‘<em>All I know</em> is that I fell asleep expectin’ to wake up with you - I wanted, I wanted to spend my life with you and you were gone and I've had to convince myself that I'm never going to see you again because, because I was living my life by a window waiting for you to come home and it was killing me. D'you understand that Merriell?'</p><p>He didn't respond, eyes set against his coat. Cigarette more ash that stub in his lip, unable to move. Unable to respond. He'd break, he'd realise. One word and the flood gates would be open. They would be open and they would never close.</p><p>'And then out of fuckin' nowhere, no letter, no warning - you turn up on my front porch three years later <em>to say hey and move on.’ </em>He shook his head. 'Is that fair, Merriell?' He pressed. 'Do I deserve that? I don't deserve that.'</p><p>A single tear dripped from Merriell's eye, landing with a silent <em>plop </em>against his knuckle. He shook his head, blinking furiously against the wetness that clung to his eyelashes. After a moment, he cleared his throat.</p><p>‘I had to go, Gene.’ He murmured, thickly. ‘You know that.’</p><p>Eugene let out a gasp of anguish. ‘I would have given up everything for you. My family. My friends. <em>My life.'</em></p><p>‘I didn’t want you to do that.' He responded, his nails moving to pick against one another. 'I never wanted you to do that. I'm not...' He trailed off, the end of his sentence lying heavily over the agonised air.</p><p>'Were you ever going to stay?' Eugene implored.</p><p>Thickly, Merriell shook his head, a second and a third tear landing heavily against his hands. </p><p>'Why did you tell me you were?'</p><p>He shrugged, moving to wipe his eyes with the base of his palm.</p><p>'I...' He took a breath, unable to quite finish the sentence. 'I wanted...' <em>I wanted to believe we could, I wanted to do it more than anything, I wanted to stay with you more than I've ever wanted anything in this entire world. Part of me didn't think I was going to leave until I did. </em>'I just needed to keep you sweet 'til we got home.' He lied. 'Was easier.'</p><p>
  <em>Hate me. Go back to hating me. Stop being so sad. Please, stop being so fucking sad. </em>
</p><p>It wasn't true; Eugene knew it wasn't. But it was agony to his ears all the same. He choked a sound somewhere between a laugh, a gasp and a grunt like he had been physically wounded.</p><p>‘You did love me though, right? Because you said you did...’ He trailed off. 'You said it first... or was that to keep me sweet, too?'</p><p>'Gene.' He groaned, painfully. <em>Don't make me say it, don't make me say it. </em></p><p>'Look at me.' He hissed. '<em>Merriell fuckin' Shelton</em>, look at me.' </p><p>Merriell sniffed sharply, wheezing slightly at the familiar aching of mucus running thickly down the back of his throat. He let out a low cough before shaking his head. <em>He couldn't.</em></p><p>'Look at me.' He repeated, desperately. '<em>Please</em> look at me.' </p><p>He screwed his eyes shut, lines of tears slipping from beneath his eyelids and tracking down his cheeks. He let out a defeated breath, scrubbing to wipe them away again before raising his head and lifting his eyes towards him thickly.</p><p>Eugene was staring at him, eyes swollen red, his own tears sitting unshed against them, wearing a look so harrowed that it completely overshadowed anything he himself had ever worn during their time in the Pacific. </p><p>'Do you?' He asked, desperately.</p><p>He nodded, suddenly unable to look anywhere other than at Eugene's face, like a deer in the headlights. <em>He could never lie to him, not really. </em></p><p>Slowly, Eugene's lids sank shut. Merriell winced at the sight of his unspent tears suddenly leaking down his face. He looked broken and Merriell, despite his best intentions, had done that. Again.</p><p>'Don't cry.' He implored, desperately. His voice devastatingly pitiful. 'C'mon Gene, don't. Please.'</p><p>Dutifully, Eugene sniffed, wiping at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve.</p><p>‘Wish you’d left me by that fuckin’ creek.’ He breathed, viciously. ‘Cos this ain’t been fuckin’ livin… I’m in agony every damn <em>fuckin' day.</em> Because every fuckin' day is a lie.’</p><p>Merriell shook his head, firmly, assuredly. ‘You ain’t Queer.’ He responded, emptily. ‘You think you are but y'ain’t.’</p><p>
  <em>He wasn't. He couldn't have been. He would never have been in this position if it hadn't been for him. He would marry; he would have a wife, a family, a life. He didn't deserve to live in shadows, he didn't deserve to live in shadows. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't. He couldn't.</em>
</p><p>Eugene crossed his arms, defensively against his chest as he regarded him scathingly. ‘Yeah well, I’ve shoved my cock down so many guys’ throats I beg to differ.’</p><p>Merriell winced. It never used to be him, he had a stomach of steel, nothing shocked him, nothing rocked him. But the status quo had never been quite the same after Eugene.</p><p>Eugene surveyed the visible pain on his face, he had wanted to hurt him and it was working. He just wished it gave him an iota of the satisfaction he had been craving. It only made him feel worse, watching the way Merriell reached upwards for the side of his hair, fingers running desperately against his mess of curls before wrapping back over his stomach protectively. <em>Was he still as warm? </em>He wondered.</p><p>‘How would you know anyway?’ Eugene asked, flatly. ‘How would you possibly know what I am? Who I am? <em>You don’t know me</em>.’</p><p>Merriell swallowed, forcing a deep breath down in his chest as he fought against the biting urge to collapse into a fit of choking coughs.</p><p>He fumbled, reaching desperately for his cigarettes on the table, drawing one out before shoving the pack towards Eugene wordlessly. With trembling hands, he raised it to his lips as he struck his match, igniting the tip as he inhaled heavily.</p><p>Heaving catarrh from the back of his throat he spat over the railing of the porch, feeling Eugene's eyes boring into him as the rhythmic inhaling on his smoke allowed his breathing to regulate. He took a final breath, the break from their conversation proving enough for him to at least attempt to re-erect his facade of ambivalence. <em>Who the fuck was he fooling at this point?</em></p><p>'Course I know you.' He answered steadily, eyes flicking towards the burning cherry of his cigarette. 'Fancy explainin' exactly why you was on a double date with your lady then?' He pressed, eyebrows flicking upwards expectantly. '<em>Mr Homosexual?' </em></p><p>Eugene rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh as he lit his own cigarette, realising for the first time he hadn't so much as baulked at the familiarly agonising burn of unfiltered Lucky Strikes against the back of his throat. They weren't as painful in company. </p><p>‘She’s my friend Kenny’s sister's friend.’ He muttered, rubbing at his sore eyes. He paused. ‘She invited herself back... thinkin' on it I feel like they set it up.'</p><p>Merriell stuttered a huff of bemused air. 'She seems nice.' He stated, trying not to sound too resentful. 'Real sweet on you.'</p><p>Eugene snorted. 'She’s fuckin’ dull as dishwater and got about as many brain cells to match… <em>just so boring</em>.’</p><p>He smirked. ‘She'll fit right in wi’ you then.’ He responded. </p><p>Eugene stared at him in that moment. Eyes swollen, face puffed, an unreadable expression across his tanned features, so agonisingly beautiful and he hated him. Despised him. For despite his own agony, despite his own devastation, his lips were helpless but to curve upward as he laughed. A smile tugged across his face as he shook his head with the exasperated annoyance that Merriell alone was able to draw from him.</p><p>He hated him endlessly, for he was helpless to it. To love him.</p><p>‘Such a fucking asshole.’ He muttered.</p><p>Merriell nodded, assuredly. Satisfied over something he did not give name to, pale eyes settling against his dark ones.</p><p>‘You look good, Gene.’ He murmured, softly. ‘Real good.’ He twitched his head, raising his cigarette gripping fingers towards his lip as he kept one arm firmly pressed against the base of his stomach. ‘side from the damn caterpillar on your lip.’</p><p>Eugene looked at him. ‘Eddie calls me Crustache.' He divulged, wiping at his smattering of facial hair defensively.</p><p>He snorted from across the table. 'Your brother's a smart man.' He remarked.</p><p>'Don't let him hear you say that.' Eugene answered, before suddenly trailing off, eyes flicking towards his own cigarette.</p><p>They were putting off the inevitable.</p><p>'What now?’ He asked, lowly. ‘You’ve said hey. What’s the next part of your plan?’</p><p>Merriell glanced down at his hands, licking his lower lip.</p><p>‘I…’ He sniffed. ‘I'm headin' East.' He lied. 'Boston way, got some work lined up... Just wanted to know you’re OK.’ He whispered. ‘I just came cos I wanted to know you was OK and...’ <em>to let you know I ain't been too well. </em>'... and to say I'm sorry.'</p><p>Eugene huffed a bitter laugh, his eyes growing heavy once more. ‘Yeah?' He rebuked. 'Well, you can shove your sorry up your damn asshole.'</p><p>Merriell exhaled a stream of smoke from his nose. 'I deserve that.' He agreed. 'I am though.' He repeated. 'Sorry.'</p><p>Eugene stared at him for a moment, gazing at Merriell as no one in his life had ever looked at him. He had forgotten just quite how it made him feel. Like he was somebody, like he meant something.</p><p>After a moment, he watched as Eugene puffed his cheeks out slowly, exhaustedly before his eyes sank shut. He shook his head.</p><p>‘I wish you hadn’t come.’ He whispered, emptily.</p><p>Merriell's eyes slipped back towards his jacket, back to the hole. Back to where it was easier to look, safer.</p><p>‘Fuck, you have no idea what you’ve done.’ He pressed his hands to his face, the balls of his palms sitting heavily against his eyes. ‘What have you done, Snaf?’ He murmured.</p><p>He swallowed.</p><p>'You ain't called me that since before China.' He stated, lowly. 'Snaf.'</p><p>'You ain't earnt it 'til now.' He responded, removing his hands from his eyes and leaning back in his chair. 'If this ain't <em>All Fucked Up</em> what the hell is?' </p><p>A smile twitched lightly at the edge of Merriell's lips. 'What bit's <em>Situation Normal</em>?' He asked.</p><p>Eugene's gaze flicked to his cigarette. </p><p>'Us.' He murmured, emptily. </p><p>The smile slipped away as soon as it had arisen. He licked his lip, his tongue catching from the lack of salivation.</p><p>'I need you to leave now.' Eugene breathed, his voice sounding cripplingly alien as it came from him. His eyes were screwed shut, his shoulders trembled. 'If you're gonna go, I need you to go now.' He shook his head. 'If you don't...'</p><p>Merriell nodded slowly, acceptingly. He lifted his cigarette to his lips, reaching down for his holdall bag beneath the table. He pulled himself to his feet.</p><p>This had been a mistake. You didn't just pitch up on the doorstep of the lover whose heart you had broken and who you had abandoned without a word. You especially didn't do so to reveal you were terminally ill and to just leave again. That wasn't fair, especially when that lover was Eugene Sledge.</p><p>He was going to leave now, to slip away and to allow him to carry on with his life. He was doing just fine, it seemed. Whilst that hadn't been the closure Merriell had hoped for, it would have to suffice.</p><p>'Will you write?' Eugene's gasped desperately, his voice raw with unspent emotion.</p><p>With a scrape of his chair, he shouldered his bag.</p><p>'No.' He answered flatly. The excruciation of the statement threatening to tear his chest in two. </p><p>Eugene nodded, his eyes screwed so firmly shut that it was almost painful, in so much agony he felt as though he were going to pass out again.</p><p>
  <em>Thirty seconds; thirty seconds; just thirty seconds. Thirty seconds and you can collapse. I promise, just thirty seconds. </em>
</p><p>It was silent until a hand fell against Eugene's shoulder. Hesitant, yet familiar.</p><p>A mewl suddenly fell from his throat, his face contorting with devastated. He blew out a wet breath. Merriell's grip was still the same as it had been. The ball of his palm resting flushly against his collar bone, the tips of his fingers curling over his shoulder blade, firm and assured. His hand extended once, twice, squeezing the familiar massage against his skin with a comfort that could have placated the end of the world.</p><p>He would rest his fingers for an extra second, maybe two.</p><p>Then he would be gone.</p><p>
  <em>I love you. Don't go. Please. Fuck. Stay with me. I have so much to tell you.</em>
</p><p>Down the garden, no goodbye, no tomorrow, no him.</p><p>'You take care of y'self, Sledgehammer.' He murmured, thickly. </p><p>Eugene nodded, instantly regretting his prior statement. He liked to think the sob that arose in his throat only reached his own ears.</p><p>
  <em>Eugene, He has to go, you know that. You have to let him go.</em>
</p><p>Suddenly the grip slackened, fingers slipped from his shoulder blade. Down towards his collarbone, his palm began to lift.</p><p>He was leaving; this time most certainly for good.</p><p>Eugene's hand slammed down so suddenly against Merriell's that a low <em>slap </em>thudded out between them.</p><p>It was a mistake the moment he touched him, he knew that. Had known it from the moment his fingers had itched in the first place.</p><p>It burnt, he surmised. To touch him. They hadn't breached a two-metre barrier in the entire time they had been together; there had been a subconscious reason for that. For their resolve always crumbled at the first ounce of physical interaction.</p><p>As it had in a foxhole in Okinawa, down a back alley in Peking or in a garden in Alabama.</p><p>His hand was warmer than he remembered, his skin altogether far softer - his knuckles no longer adorned in burns and nicks from the mortar. His nails clean, still bitten to the wick though, he was no less stressed than he had been at war.</p><p>Most devastatingly? Still, after all this time, he smelt like home.</p><p>Like a musty bedroll in a poorly insulated barrack in the middle of Chinese winter, like languid bodies draped over one another, basking and satisfied.</p><p>Content.</p><p>He had never known contentment like Merriell Shelton.</p><p>To Eugene's agony, Merriell did not withdraw. Instead, slowly, achingly slowly, his thumb slowly curled beneath his fingers in response, gripping onto his hand loosely.</p><p>There was a silence for a moment as they stood there. Torn. Between what was needed and what was wanted until finally, with the groan of the weight of a thousand men, Eugene let out a cry. His hands falling to his lap, his head curling over as he uttered the most painful sob he had ever emitted. Worse than the tears he had shed on the train, worse than every tear he had shed since since. With his entire body screaming in agony, he wept, his chest heaving with each sob. He screwed his eyes shut, hoping the darkness would swallow him. </p><p>There was a low thud of a bag falling to the floor beside him, before suddenly a warmth embraced him. Merriell's arms reached for him, drawing him safely towards his stomach as he cried. One hand holding him firmly around the shoulders, the other against the back of his head, fingers buried deep into his scalp. Eugene reached for him, clinging desperately around his narrow waist, as though he may combust at any second.</p><p>The embrace offering him solace for just a moment. The rest of the world leaking away until just the two of them existed. As it always had been. Yet this time was different, for Merriell offered him nothing in response besides his touch. No murmurings, no assurances, no apologies, no gentle rocking, no kisses to the head. For there was no point anymore.</p><p>This time, the decision was final.</p><p>For how long Eugene wept, he was not sure. Each aching, gasping tear falling from him until he was left feeling only hollow and empty, all that was remaining to be a devastated resignation. He kept his face buried against the softness of Merriell's coat for a long time after he had finished, the warmth and the smell of his providing the only comfort possible as he relished in what he truly believed to be their final ever moments together. </p><p>'You OK?' Merriell asked softly, his own voice thick.</p><p>Eugene nodded into the fabric of his jacket, unrelenting in his desperation for comfort.</p><p>'Dry y'eyes.' He urged, his accent thick as he gently releasing the back of his head. Somewhere, in a distant corner of Eugene's mind, he recalled just how heavy his words dipped when his emotions got the better of him. When his own tears fell.</p><p>Eugene did as instructed, droppin his hold as he reached blindly into his pocket for his handkerchief before scrubbing at his swollen nose and eyes. He cleared his throat pitifully as Merriell moved to smooth down the front of his hair where it had mussed against his front. By the time he looked up, he was met by a dry faced Merriell, though his eyes looked raw. </p><p>'Where are you goin' to go?' He asked emptily. 'Tonight? Now?'</p><p>Merriell coughed, giving a low shrug. 'Head back to the station.' He murmured. 'Get the next train heading East.'</p><p>He reached back towards him, as though terrified he was going to bolt, purposely grabbing a handful of jacket in his hand. Had he brushed him away, Eugene was positive the following statement would not have fallen from his lips.</p><p>'Stay.' He pleaded suddenly, his voice falling from him in a raw gasp. 'Just... for tonight.'</p><p>Merriell's eyes sank momentarily shut. 'Gene that ain't...' He began, but he shook his head firmly in response, cracking his eyes open.</p><p>
  <em>If he stayed he would never leave.</em>
</p><p>'What else you gonna do?' He prosed. 'It's near midnight. Where you gonna go?' He tried not to sound as desperate as he felt. 'Just tonight. One night. You don't...' He trailed off. 'Just stay, sleep, fuck off at first light if you want... you don't have to... stay with me... you can stay in the guest room - my Mother is always ready for guests.'</p><p>There was a pause, the sound of Merriell sucking in a disagreeable lungful of air.</p><p>'You can lock your damn door if it'd make you happy.' He added, into the second pause. '<em>Please.'</em></p><p>It was then why Eugene finally realised why Merriell had left as he had, silent and into the night. For he would never have let him leave without a fight and he had never had a fight with Merriell Shelton he had not won.</p><p>It was the low click of his tongue that made him realise he had won. If only for tonight. If only to delay the inevitable until morning. It would hurt worse then, he was sure, but tomorrow wasn't now and now they had time.</p><p>'I'm gone first thing.' He answered, lowly. 'I'll stay but ain't nothin' more - you understand that?'</p><p>Eugene nodded. Just to be with him, just one night. Just to be near him. That would be enough.</p><p>'Is that not what I just said?' He rebuked.</p><p>With an aching emptiness, Merriell took a step away from him, settling it back over his duffle bag before holding his hands up. 'You're gonna need to give me a fuckin' map 'cos this place is like a damn castle.' He muttered.</p><p>
  <em>I'm really out of my depth now; so this is on you, Sledge.</em>
</p><p>Eugene drew himself to his own feet, giving a final sniff as he aimed to place his tears behind him.</p><p>'You...' He trailed off. 'You want somethin' to eat? There's all sorts of leftovers.'</p><p>Merriell's face twitched. 'Did you cook it?' He asked, uncertainly.</p><p>Eugene smiled, weakly, letting out a low huff of amusement. 'No... You're safe.'</p><p>Merriell glanced towards the kitchen before back to Eugene, he nodded. 'Sure.' He agreed, trying not to sound too eager over the gripings of his nearly empty stomach.</p><p>Late at night always was the easiest time for him to eat. His chest was loose, allowing for him to eat without the sickening pains and nausea. Yet his nerves hadn't allowed him even as little as that over the last couple of days.</p><p>'Come on then.' Eugene pressed, trying to feign as much normality as he could as he reached for the french doors leading towards the kitchen, holding the entry open for him.</p><p>Merriell accepted the invitation wordlessly, stepping inside the large room. Eugene eyed him scrupulously as he did so, still trying to repress how overwhelming he found it having Merriell in his home. His Mother would have called the police, Father would have a fit, his brother would have thrown at least one punch, even Martha would have grabbed a broom.</p><p>Not that he could have cared.</p><p>It was as Merriell moved beneath the harsh strip light above them that Eugene realised this had been the first time he had seen him properly.</p><p>He looked sallow, with dark circles beneath his eyes. His cheekbones protruded harshly from his skin, his ears stood out from the side of his head. He walked with a frailty to him, his clothes hung from him, like he'd lost an excessive amount of weight. He didn't just look scrawny he looked... <em>ill.</em></p><p>‘Give me that.’ Eugene muttered, reaching for the holdall on Merriell's shoulder and yanking it from him, more roughly than he intended. He couldn't leave without his things.</p><p>Suddenly Merriell stumbled, suddenly overcome by dizziness as he braced himself heavily against the kitchen counter he found himself stood beside. He let out a wheeze and a grunt of exertion. </p><p>
  <em>Don't pass out, don't pass out, don't you fucking dare, don't pass out!</em>
</p><p>Eugene's arm instantly flew out to support him, catching him before he tripped too far. He gripped onto him gratefully, like a lifeline, one hand against his shoulder, one against his hip as he took several deep breaths.</p><p>‘Jesus, I’m sorry!’ He murmured, urgently. 'Are you OK?'</p><p>‘Dammit, Sledgehammer.’ Merriell drawled, a smirk on his face. ‘Y’ain’t gotta rough a guy up.’</p><p>Eugene paused, feeling as though ice water had flushed over his skin, suddenly acutely aware of how intertwined they stood, one hand firmly against Merriell's narrow waist, one against the curve of his hip. With a deep breath, Eugene surmised that his heart murmur must suddenly have made a resurgence with a vengeance, for there was no other explanation for the way it inexplicably appeared to momentarily stop. He felt the same beneath his hands, warm and safe. His.</p><p>'You good?' He asked, tenderly. His voice dripping with concern as he scrutinised Merriell's face, that was no more than inches from his own. He could smell him now, not through clothing or across a table. Could smell the same warmth and musk he had longed for so earnestly. <em>Fuck. </em></p><p>He could kiss him if he wanted to. If he chose to. If he thought he would survive it. Just a lower of his head, would be all it took. The lower of his head and the scarification of his sanity.</p><p>As though he understood his thoughts, Merriell instantly drew away, lowering his gaze.</p><p>'I ain't been too well the last few weeks.' He muttered, dismissively. 'Still a bit weak on m'feet.'</p><p>Eugene nodded, pausing uncomfortably before reaching once more for the holdall that hung limply against Merriell's forearm. He did his best not to wince at the lightness of its paltry contents, it felt as though he carried as little in the real world as he did during the war. Perhaps what he carried was all that he had.</p><p>'Do you... want a drink?' He suggested, already reaching beneath the kitchen sink for the rum that Annie kept secreted there.</p><p>Softly Merriell nodded before turning his wide eyed attention to the kitchen as Eugene grabbed two tumblers from the cupboard.</p><p>He hadn't really noticed it coming through, hell, hadn't paid attention to anything other than the movement of his own feet. It was nothing less, in his opinion, than palatial. Like something out of a catalogue or the inside of an upper-class family home from the movies - everything was lavish; expensive.</p><p>Everything except for him. He felt unwantedly out of place, like a flea that a stray dog may have brought in. Growing more and more concerned with each passing moment that this was a grave mistake. Growing more and more aware of how much he would come to regret his decision to stay when it came time to leave.</p><p>He turned to shut the door behind himself.</p><p>'Gene?' He murmured.</p><p>'Yeah?' He asked, glancing up as he poured the dark liquid into the glasses on the kitchen table.</p><p>'The glass on your door is cracked.'</p><p>Softly, Eugene smiled. 'I know.' He stated, passing the drink towards him and gesturing at him to take a seat. 'You good with bacon? There's some left from lunch?'</p><p>Merriell nodded, watching stupefied as he moved across the kitchen to the oven. Domesticity looked bizarrely incredible on him. </p><p>'So...' Eugene murmured after several moments of pained silence, desperately racking his brain for some conversation was was casual enough to dull the rawness of their situation. 'What you been up to?'</p><p>He lit a cigarette, leaning back on his chair and reaching for the glass of alcohol in front of him. 'I... met Essie yesterday.' He murmured, softly. </p><p>He watched as Eugene froze as he reached for the pan.</p><p>'You wanna talk about it?' He asked, already knowing the answer.</p><p>'If you want.' He responded.</p><p>He smiled to himself. 'Sure.'</p><p>'She's doin' good, married - I got a niece.' Merriell added, softly. </p><p>From his position at the stove, Eugene let out a low sigh. 'It's gonna be rough, ain't it?' He murmured as he poured oil into the skillet over the flame.</p><p>'What is?' He asked, quietly, his eyes unmoving from their position on Eugene's back.</p><p>'Our last night.'</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh Eugene... how little you know...</p><p>Thank you so much for reading!</p><p>I would love to know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Good God, it's been a while! I'm so sorry that it's been so long since I last updated. Life got very real and unfortunately writing had to fall beside the wayside.</p><p>But we're back! Let's just think of it as a Winter Hiatus! </p><p>Please welcome the first half of what has affectionately become known as 'the longest night'. I was going to post as one full chapter but it just became too long and having spent the best part of the week editing this I wanted to get this up.</p><p>I hope it's been worth the wait, we're back with the boys. 10/10 I had to reread my own story to remember wtaf was going on so I would advise you do the same!</p><p>We're half way through, guys! What's to become of them?! Only time will tell.</p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em> <span class="u">Mobile: March, 1946</span> </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Before Eugene had even had the chance to step through the unclipped train door, he was assaulted by the overwhelmingly thick stench that awaited him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It engulfed him in those first moments, the fetor of home. The sickly sweet dogwood in the flower beds that adorned the platform wilting in the heat, mixed with the luscious grasslands and endless cyprus trees that rolled in with every gust of breeze. Things grew here, he realised.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was different than he remembered it; yet so similar that is was as though no time had passed at all.</em>
</p><p><em>The familiar sun-bleached</em> <em> ticket office was the first sight that greeted him as he climbed down onto the platform. Instantly, the air clung thickly around him, the pitiful gasp of a breeze that lingered doing nothing to alleviate the sun burning blindingly overhead, heady and insidious, making the concrete platform hot underfoot despite in not being yet midday. The gaggle of crowds surrounding him made him anxious, ready. It took him a moment to realise there was nothing left to be ready for anymore.</em></p><p>
  <em>He had longed for this years ago, months ago, weeks, perhaps days ago, even. Had ached for so long to be home, back in his bedroom, in his home town, safe with his parents and his friends. Back on the very platform he had departed from over three years before. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He had dreamt of it all.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The grounds of his home with its endless soft grass, the smell of varnished wood in the downstairs hall, Deacon lying lazily on the mat at the foot of the stairs, relishing in the sun as it leaked through the glass of the front door, the symphony of crickets whose chirps hailed the end of each passing day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He had even found himself longing for the unbearable Alabaman summers that he had found so miserable growing up, where reprieve from the sun had been impossible, inside being hotter than out, his clothes clinging to the sweat on his back before he had even sat to eat his morning toast. An endless afternoon sitting out on the gulf of the bay with his friends or splashing in one of the creeks with a homemade rope swing. Heading out before dawn with his Father for a morning hunt before returning with their spoils that Annie would then fashion into the most delectable of feasts. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>If he were honest, he had even missed his Mother's contemptuous as she reigned supreme over the dinner table, the relentless expectations his parents held of him that had been exhausting to him once. But now? Only heaven was as rapturous.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes, every memory he held of home sat rose-tinted in his mind, skewed and hazy like a summer romance where nothing terrible could possibly ever occur. For bad things did not occur at home, not where one was loved, safe and fed. He had been thoroughly ready to drown in it upon his return. Home. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>However, as the heat of a balmy spring morning clawed instantly at his skin as he lugged his seabag over his shoulder, every ounce of home struck him as feeling so irrevocably wrong.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He paused for a moment, gaze set heavily upon the large wooden platform that hung on the wall of the station house. </em>
</p><p><strong> <em>MOBILE</em> </strong> <em><strong> STATION</strong>, </em> <em>it read. </em></p><p>
  <em>It felt different to when he had left. Aggressive, condescending and entirely unwelcoming. Yet for the life of him, Eugene could not understand why.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This was his home.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In fact, it had been from this very spot that he had boarded the train for bootcamp. So full of piss and vinegar and whatever else he thought a marine needed to be, prepared to offer anything Uncle Sam needed of him. Ready to save the world.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could remember it now, how palpable his terror had been that the war would be over before he had reached it. How important it would be to savour every moment because he would be back before he knew it, back at home, in Mobile. He had seen himself climbing from the train with Sid as a decorated veteran. Perhaps a girl in the pipeline, a job promised for him, so full of hope and eagerness to carry on with his life.</em>
</p><p><em>Instead, there he stood - o</em> <em>ut of the sticks in '46. </em></p><p>
  <em>Twenty two yet yet feeling forty and so incandescently numb that he was unsure how his legs had not buckled beneath him. He glanced back towards the carriage from which he had just disembarked, half expecting to see a curly head peering at him from the window, fully prepared to launch himself back onto the train had that been so.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet of course, there wasn't.</em>
</p><p><em>It hadn't quite settled in, he didn't yet think. </em> <em>The agony of it. The betrayal of it. The severity of it. </em></p><p>
  <em>There was a fury in him somewhere, he could feel it beginning to fester. Not at Merriell, no matter how much he desperately wished for it to be. But instead <strong>for him</strong>, for them both. An anger and the most insurmountable pain that he could not, for the life of him, begin to find to articulate.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Even if he could, a moment later such a description would be of no value to him. For each passing moment left a gaping wound larger than the one before it, leaving a grief so raw that he was positive would tear him entirely in two. For a new reality beckoned him now, a one way path that he had no alternative but to walk alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The heat stung his face, raw and sticky as it remained. His eyes sore from tears that had been both shed and unshed, his throat swollen from the sobs that had torn from it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He knew he would never be able to talk about it. Not to Sid, his family, anybody. It was a filthy, dirty secret that could never allow to blacken his family's name, never burden those he loved. It was a thought that, in its' wake, left a despair so razor deep that he wished he could fall asleep and simply never wake up. Because Merriell wasn't filthy, Merriell wasn't dirty, Merriell was beautiful. What they had had was beautiful.</em>
</p><p><em>But now it was</em> <em> like it had never happened. He stood abandoned, unwanted, alone and for the first time, he wondered - was this what it felt like to be Merriell Shelton?</em></p><p>
  <em>He felt forgotten, as though there had been some kind of mistake. Because Merriell had loved him, he had told him that. He had told him endlessly and he had shown him and he had held him and he had painted the most exquisite images of their futures within their minds. Pictures of fireplaces and soft furnishings and fishing on the edge of lakes, pictures of clean civvies and fresh sheets, clean bodies and unmottled skin. No guns, no blood, no mud, no pain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A new home, a new life and Merriell had done that. All on his own. </em>
</p><p><em>It</em> <em> wasn't supposed to be this way. Neither of them were ever supposed to be alone again and that fact alone felt like a lethal blow. </em></p><p>
  <em>Because it had been a lie, all of it. Whether it had started out that way he would never know; not that it mattered. For any reminder of their time together existed solely in his own memory. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell was gone. Where? Who knew. The waif that he was made it likely he was half way across Louisiana before Eugene had even cracked his eyes open. Headed straight for destination unknown, leaving not a trail in his wake, impossible to track down. He knew there was little point in following, for a man who did not wish to be found had little cause in being chased.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He would chase him though, given the opportunity, given a whisper. He would write. To Burgie, to Leyden, to De L'Eau, hell to Redifer, for surely his friends wouldn't receive such a cold abandonment? They had been blameless in his deceit. Yet so too, at least in his own opinion, had Eugene. He had done everything he had ever been asked, ever been told. Had thought if he had followed each of his commands with a dogged obedience then their fading into the outskirts would be seamless. He hadn't even told his Mother he was due home yet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He had done everything right.</em>
</p><p><em>Not that it had mattered, not that any of it mattered. Because from the moment he had opened his eyes and met the desola</em><em>tion of the empty seat across from him, </em> <em>in the pit of his stomach he knew. Merriell was never coming back. A sentiment that had left him on the constant brink of collapse ever since. </em></p><p>
  <em>And what good will that do anybody? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet still, here he stood, back at home at Mobile train station. Returned from a war, so etched into himself that it had deformed everything within him, every organ, every thought. A never ending nightmare that had seemed to last both for a moment and for forever at the same time. His time with Merriell, however, was fleeting, a flash. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Almost forgotten. At least, that was what he would spend the rest of his life telling himself. Tomorrow, tomorrow it would be forgotten.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With a final glance to the carriage that held his final experience of battle, his greatest experience of war, Eugene finally braved his gaze up and down the platform before noticing the familiar grin that accompanied the face of his childhood best friend. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>With every ounce of his might, forcing his grief down to his very depths, Eugene forced a smile to his face. Hoping that the way he bared his teeth and ambled towards his newly appointed chauffer that he gave the airs of a man who had no secrets. A man who was delighted to be home.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It worked for a time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The car ride was nothing short of pleasant, a welcomed distraction and nothing less than what he had dreamed of back in the burning sand of Pavuvu.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He slipped into silence, taking the time to pack his pipe leisurely as he allowed Sid to ramble on about everything he had missed, all the drama, all the gossip - for if a town like Mobile was full of anything, it was gossip. Yet soon, as it inevitably did with all conversations, the topic turned to war. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was only as Sid listed their tenth childhood friend who had not made it home that Eugene had allowed the mask to slip, only once. A broken <strong>'not t... not today',</strong> falling from his lips before he he shoved his pipe firmly back between his teeth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To his grace, Sid appeased him, instead falling into the easy chatter of who had married whom in Eugene's absence. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Beneath the veil of his mindless chatter, Eugene allowed his eyes to sink closed, resting his temple against the door frame where, within the sanctity of his lids, he revelled in their final images, each one flickering like the footage in a silent movie. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merriell.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sat in by the window illuminated in the warmth of the sunlight passing through the glass, the glint of teeth as he smiled, swathed in a billow of smoke as he convinced Burgie into one last game of 21 with the hanging apart pack of cards he had seemed to carry through out the war, the euphoric cackle as he slammed a nine down onto the table before him, the crinkle of his eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>To his last memories, right before he had drifted to sleep. The feeling of sheer sanctity, all that fell before them being a promise of hope. No indication at all to the secrets or lies that existed between them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>To then, where Eugene never imagined himself to know such a grief as this and the sinking realisation that the home he had craved for for so long had never been in Mobile, Alabama and his return there was futile. For he suddenly realised that home had shifted in his time of war, if only by an inch. Yet so much so that it more more of a resemblance to the dugouts of Okinawa and the barracks of China than the fragments that existed in Mobile, Alabama. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>For home was him.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong> <span class="u">Mobile; May, 1949</span> </strong>
</p><p>There was a vulnerability to Merriell that Eugene could not place. One that left him guarded, almost affronted, a silent vitriol seeming to exist behind his eyes with each breath he drew from the seat opposite him. Yet whether the intended target of such vilification was Merriell himself or he, Eugene could not be sure, though he would stake money on the former. </p><p>They had sat in the kitchen for what felt like hours, Merriell seeming to take forever to finish a single bacon sandwich, before making even heavier work of Annie's potato salad that had accompanied it. That in itself had struck him as odd, for Eugene could never recall a time during which he had seen him struggle to finish a meal.</p><p>The mood had been painful at first, tentative. As though neither were sure how to measure the other, despite the conversation which flowed between them.</p><p>Merriell had talked at length of his sister with a fondness that made Eugene ache, had regarded her with a warmth that he only wished he would regard himself. He had finally divulged he had been back in New Orleans since the war's end, that although had always been meaning to head out for Lafayette for pastures new, he had never quite gotten round to it. For a brief moment, the realisation crossed Eugene's mind that, had he had the bravery, if he had chosen to venture west towards New Orleans he would have stood a chance of tracking him down after all. Not that he allowed himself to give voice to such thoughts.</p><p>Since the war he had gone back to working lumber. It was gruelling work, he hated it now as much as he had before the war but it had kept him fed and housed so that had been good enough for the time being.</p><p>Eugene had braved a joke then, a low rib that<em> perhaps he wanted to try another profession given the current state of him</em>. For beneath the harsh strip lighting of his Mother's kitchen there was no escaping quite how much Merriell's recent illness had taken a toll on him. His face that had always been sculpted by his highly pronounced cheekbones and during their time in the Pacific at points he had boarded on skeletal. Yet if anything he looked worse now, sallow and pale; perhaps even thinner.</p><p>He would fix that, given the chance. Would ply him so full of Boudin and Beignets that he would never want to face one again, just like they had planned back on Peleliu. Just like it should have been. Maybe he would even head towards the China Town in Birmingham, see if he could find a restaurant that cooked those meat and gravy buns he had liked so much. He'd pay for the recipe if he had to.</p><p>If he were truthful, however, Eugene was not at all surprised at the state of him - especially if he had been ill. He had always been terrible at taking care of himself.</p><p>The jibe had elicited the smallest flicker of something passing across his features, in response. A thought, Eugene surmised, that like he, Merriell chose not to verbalise.</p><p>Yet beyond a brief description of his life, he remained entirely guarded. Either un-wanting or un-willing to speak, instead, it seemed, he only wanted to listen.</p><p>So Eugene spoke.</p><p>He told him of his family, how his Mother liked to smother him and how his Father had struggled to understand him. Walked him through his life at university, spoke of his studies, of his friends, of the diner he liked to eat in and the house he lived in on campus. He talked of Martha and his brother, of the home he shared with them when back from school, revealed how kind she was and how supportive Edward had been in his days coming home from the war and ever since.</p><p>Yet he gave no indication of the struggles he had suffered since returning. Now was not the time for that. If there was ever to be something that solidified Merriell's decision to leave, it would be the recollection of that fateful Fall afternoon, the confrontation with Sid, the shame of his Father and the only time he had held a gun since his dismissal from the Marine Corps. </p><p>To his surprise, whatever Eugene saw fit to divulge, Merriell only wanted to hear more, uttering not a sound as he spoke as though for fear he would miss a vital detail. As though he were storing the information for a later date. </p><p>In fact, every time the conversation lulled a low <em>'what else?'</em> would fall from Merriell's lips as he stared earnestly towards him, before clearing his throat and reaching once again for his plate of food or glass of alcohol. Almost as though he were giving veiled plea <em>even though I can't be in your life, I need to know all about it</em> and Eugene, as always, found himself helpless but to oblige his every whim.</p><p>The virtually full bottle of rum had passed between the pair of them endlessly, glass after glass of the rich liquid being refilled until little of it remained. </p><p>Eugene had never been much of a drinker stateside. In fact, he found more often than not, the only times he drank excessively was to forget. Though this instance proved not to be the case.</p><p>He was drinking to find something. The courage, perhaps? The answer? The exact right thing that would make Merriell stay?</p><p>Yet as of yet he had nothing.</p><p>It was amidst that dogged frustration, that he had reached down to grab another cigarette from the table only then noticing the plates from which Merriell ate.</p><p>In his hurry to ready the food, he hadn't paid the slightest heed to which crockery he had grabbed from the cupboard. In fact, it was only now did he remembered the existence of his Mother's China Willow.</p><p>The Blue Willow had been a favourite of his since he was a boy. Yet it had been so long that he had been considered a casual enough guest to have been fed off anything other than her best Gien Rocaille bone china that they had simply fallen entirely from his memory. </p><p>He paused for a moment whatever he had been saying falling by the wayside as he recalled being sat at the dining table with his beloved late Grandfather retelling the fateful tale of the Chinese Princess and her turtle doves.</p><p>The only daughter of China's most powerful Mandarin, she had been betrothed to a cruel Merchant. In order to ensure her purity, she was confined within the estate of her Father's palace until she reached the age to wed. With no company, the Princess grew terribly lonely, her only companions being her pet birds who lived in the grounds' menagerie.</p><p>Her collection of birds grew so extensive that she became unable to care for them alone. Wishing to appease her, her Father hired the son of a local to assist in their care. Yet under the condition of death, he was forbidden from fraternising with the Princess.</p><p>Yet the pull of friendship was impossible to ignore and the pair began to communicate using a pair of turtle doves. Endless letters were passed between them, each carefully strapped to the leg of the bird, and their relationship blossomed.</p><p>However, their happiness was not to last. The day of the Princess' union to her betrothed arrived all too quickly. Their wedding was to be the most magnificent, lavish celebration the kingdom had ever seen. Yet to her, it was nothing but a glorified death sentence. In the final moments before the ceremony began, her lover stole into the castle disguised as a servant and the pair fled, leaving everything behind, including her beloved birds.</p><p>Enraged, her Father ordered for his personal guard to retrieve the pair at once, vowing to have his vengeance for her betrayal. In a fit of rage, he called for her birds to be caged, assured she would return for them if she heard of their suffering.</p><p>Yet return she did not.</p><p>Years went by with no trace of the couple until one day the Mandarin had the thought to release the two turtle doves in the hope they would be able to locate their former owners. At once, he ordered them to be freed and had his soldiers to follow their flight. Low and behold, the birds tracked down the lovers with ease to a faraway land where they had been living since their escape and soon they were imprisoned by the Mandarin's Guard.</p><p>In shackles, they were brought before the court where the Princess fell to her knees as she sought her Father's mercy. In the face of his daughter, he acquiesced, assuring her, all would be forgiven if she relented and married the Merchant as had been arranged. She refused, pleading to be allowed to remain with her love, whatever the price.</p><p>The Mandarin held no more compassion for her plight. He had been humiliated by her once too often.</p><p>On his orders, the immediate construction of a maze beneath the palace began. It was endless, around each corner lay a myriad of twists and turns, false walls and dead ends. Upon its completion, he had each lover imprisoned at opposing ends before bricking the entrances up behind them. There the Princess achieved her wish and she could remain there with her sweetheart - forever.</p><p>Within the maze's darkness the two spent their final days, stumbling through the tunnels in the pitch black, crying out for one another as they attempted to navigate the endless labyrinth of confusion. Whether they did? Only the Gods knew.</p><p>At the dinner table, beside his beloved Grandfather, in front of an ensemble of extended family, over his Mother's china willow, seven-year-old Eugene had wept. Distraught by the notion of anyone, especially a parent, being so cruel. No assuages from either Grandparent, no light jostling from his Father and no sharp reprimand from his Mother would get him to stop, so had the story haunted him.</p><p>For the remainder of his childhood, he had spent endless a dinner time avoiding whatever adorned said plate in favour of searching the endless pathways of maze in the hope of connection just two of the passageways, wanting, beyond all measure, to believe the two had been reunited before their demises. Even in his teens, he would find himself falling out of conversation, his eyes skirting beneath the remnants of his meals in the hope to join two lines. Never had he managed it.</p><p>For, as a boy, Eugene had been incensed at the notion that a love could be forbade and two people kept apart simply because someone declared it so. A notion which, as he grew into adulthood in Southern Alabama, he learnt was not just the plight of a mythical Princess on his Mother's bone china.</p><p>Yet never, not once, had he anticipated the tale would hit so close to home. </p><p>He blamed the rum for it happening, the alcohol seeping warmly through his veins, loosening his tongue. </p><p>'You ever think about it?' He murmured softly. </p><p>Merriell skirted his eyes towards him, lowering the crust of his sandwich and chasing it with the remnants of his glass of rum. Eugene blinked. The question had fallen from his lips absently, almost like a musing. In fact, by the time he realised what he had said, he wished for nothing more than to be able to take the question back.  </p><p>''bout what?' He asked, reaching for the rum bottle and uncorking it before tipping the contents into his glass and then moving towards Eugene's. </p><p>Though mid-thought as he wracked his brain for an alternate topic of conversation, he managed to stopper the top of his glass with his palm before any more alcohol flowed into it.</p><p>'No more.' He insisted, shaking his head disagreeably as he did everything within his power to prevent from physically baulking at the prospect of consuming any more. Strong spirits had never failed to turn his stomach.</p><p>Merriell's mouth twitched into a smirk.</p><p>'You ain't never quite got the taste for it, did'ya?' He remarked, shaking his head with affectionate exasperation, an expression a stranger may have mistaken for derision.</p><p>The action winded Eugene like a punch to the chest. He huffed, doing everything within his power to suppress the sudden urgency to cry as a thousand memories instantly flooded across his mind of Merriell mirroring such a pose, in a foxhole, in a tent, in a barracks, in a bed. He sniffed, taking a moment to steady himself as he felt the warmth of the bile like liquid continue work its magic, knowing despite his greatest intentions, the itching of dutch courage would loosen his tongue entirely, at any moment. </p><p>'It's god damn awful.' He responded, with as much forced ambivalence as he could muster. Taking a deep breath, he reached forward once again for the cigarette he had first gone for, raising it to his lips and lighting it. 'Problem is - if you drink wine without a meal folk know you're queer, right off the bat.' He added, with the smallest huff at his own joke.</p><p>For an agonising moment, Merriell did not react. Instantly, Eugene recoiled, feeling as though he had taken a strike to the stomach. What had felt like a safe comment to his drink addled mind clearly had not been so. He flushed, furious with himself with bringing the forbidden topic. It had been going so well and now it was going to all come thundering down thanks to him running his drunken damn mouth.</p><p>Then, without any indication of preamble, the all too familiar twitch on the corner of Merriell's lip came again and followed by the scathing head shake, and with it, relief flooded Eugene's body so much so that for a moment his back sagged beneath the strain of his own apprehension.</p><p>It was almost as though they had travelled back in time half a decade, back to the dust and desecration of Peleliu where, huddled in foxholes and still mind drunk and somewhat in shock from his first experience of battle, he clung desperately to any offerings of warmth his belligerent comrade was willing to throw his way. Affection which within weeks, he found himself aching for in its absence.</p><p>'They fight a damn mean war but ain't nothin' like that Jap wine we drank on VJ Day.' Merriell mused, clearing his throat heavily before moving to nurse his glass of rum.</p><p>'Sake.' Eugene prompted, leaning forward onto one elbow as he gazed across the table at him. </p><p>It was torture not to touch him. A far greater feat than he had envisioned. Even in-country they had been demonstrative, even before any of this had started - be it a clap on the back in their earliest days together, or a heavy lean against one another to save from sinking to the bottom of a filthy foxhole during their darkest days on Okinawa and every other ounce of affection and debauchary they had undertaken beneath the darkness of night or behind the seclusion of a tent or a palm tree.</p><p>To be unable to touch him now, to reach for him, to hold him, that was the most alien aspect to him of everything in this entire sorry affair. As though it were an unspoken, silent barrier that would make the whole situation explicably worse than it already was. Not that Merriell gave him any indication to be suffering the same affliction.</p><p>As usual, it felt as though Eugene were the one to suffer, the only one. Merriell remaining the ever staunch character that remained near impossible to read at any given time.</p><p>Another cough brought him back to reality, with light, piercing eyes gazing at him affectionately for a moment before returning their attention back to the glass in hand.</p><p>'Is there any shit you don't know?' He replied, a level of disbelief in his voice. Eugene huffed softly. 'Whatever it's called - I ain't ever manage to find nothin' that taste like it.'</p><p>He shoved a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of the parlour. 'Got some in the liquor cabinet.' He answered. 'S'yours if you want it.'</p><p>Merriell frowned. 'How the fuck you get your hands on that?' He asked, incredulously. ''Bama don't strike me as particularly Nip friendly.'</p><p>Eugene smirked, bitterly. 'One of my Uncles bought it for me Christmas just gone.' He stated, his voice dripping with distain as he took a drag of his cigarette before blowing out a stream of smoke. He ground down the back of his molars in annoyance at the memory, Uncle John sat staring expectantly, the heavy silence in the room that followed. 'It had been a real borin' Christmas I guess, think he was hopin' I'd go back rollin' on the floor in front of 'em.'</p><p>For the third time in less than five minutes, the realisation of what he was saying came too late for Eugene retract it. He bristled, a tremor akin to cold water being poured down his back as he straightened stiffly in his seat, instantly sobering as humiliation caused an flush to spread across his skin. He cleared his throat, hoping his statement had somehow been missed or that Merriell would at least have the grace to ignore him.</p><p>He had hoped in vane.</p><p>Merriell didn't react immediately, chewed thoughtfully against his lip with a pained expression on his face as he surveyed him. Eugene squirmed beneath the scrutiny.</p><p>'You struggled bein' back?' He asked hesitantly.</p><p>Eugene shrugged, letting out a huff. 'Didn't everyone?' He murmured. </p><p>A pained silence fell between them over the open ended question. <em>Had <strong>he</strong>? </em>He wondered, the realisation that he in fact had no clue what his ex-lover's post war experience had been like becoming glaringly obvious.</p><p>Merriell lowered his eyes to his lap, a haunted expression on his face as he traced the rim of his glass carefully with his forefinger. He took that as a yes.</p><p>'Think about what?' Came his quiet reply, as he raised his head slightly, seeming to keep his eyes anywhere but on Eugene. </p><p>He frowned, his brow pulling in confusion. 'Huh?' </p><p>'Y'said <em>Do you ever think about it?</em><em>'</em> He repeated, raising the tumbler to his lips and taking another mouthful. 'Think about what?'</p><p>Eugene huffed, shaking his head. 'Nothin'.' He murmured. 'It was stupid.'</p><p>Merriell clicked his tongue objectionably. 'Naw.' He rebuked. 'Tell me.'</p><p>Eugene let out a breath, stumbling over quite how to articulate such a perplexing notion as the one which had crossed through his mind.</p><p>'Do... you... do you ever... think about what it would be like if it wasn't like... this...?' He trailed off. 'Do you ever think what it would be like if being a queer wasn't such a bad thing? Like if folk didn't care?'</p><p>Eugene watched as Merriell processed the question, his face remaining expressionless as he wore the same blank look of ambivalence. He cleared his throat. </p><p>'No.' He answered, flatly. 'Same as I don't think on how it'd be if I started shittin' gold coins. Both'd be nice - not <em>neither</em> of 'em gonna happen!'  </p><p>He let out a harsh breath, his voice almost breaking on his last statement. He took an audible drag of his cigarette, letting out a deep cough before forcibly stubbing his butt out on the edge of his used plate, kissing his teeth bitterly as he did so.</p><p>Eugene winced at the action, shuffling awkwardly in his seat as a second pained pause descended, the statement settling thickly over the table. The question had incensed him and he wasn't entirely sure why. He nodded, resignedly.</p><p>'I do.' He confessed quietly, his eye-line sinking down to his lap. 'Sometimes.'</p><p>He felt Merriell's gaze boring into him, the atmosphere between them so still that he was sure he heard him swallow.</p><p>'That's the difference 'tween us, Gene.' He murmured, tentatively.</p><p>He let out a huff of laughter, doing his very best to hide the way his outburst had cut him.</p><p>'What?' He asked. 'I'm the stupid one?'</p><p>Raising his gaze back up he was surprised to find Merriell staring at him once again, an oddly harrowed look on his face. One he had not worn all evening, one Eugene did not remember him wearing since the early days of China.</p><p>He dropped his gaze, shaking his head.</p><p>'Naw.' Merriell answered quietly, knocking back the full contents of his glass. He grimaced at the taste before lowering it to the table. 'You always been the better one.' He cleared his throat tightly. 'You still got it in ya to see the good. Even after everythin'.' He reached towards his near empty cigarette packet on the table. 'You're a good man, Eugene... better than most... better'n me at any rate. S'why... ' He faltered slightly, as though taking his own turn to realise how loosened his tongue had become. 'S'why y'so important.'</p><p>Eugene was only aware of how quiet the room had fallen when he became distantly aware of the ticking of the Grandfather Clock from the hallway. At a loss of quite what to say, he nodded, blinking away against the heavy pricking that sat thickly in his eyes. He swallowed heavily against the lump sitting against the back of his throat, allowing the sentiment to settle heavily like a stone in his stomach.</p><p>Articulating his feelings had never been a skill that Merriell had quite mastered.</p><p>To his own admission, it was a feat he had always seen little point it, conversations were for simpering broads and scholars with spoons up their asses. He found it far easier to articulate his feelings with deeds or derision, or better yet - simply not at all. A punch or an embrace was far more effective than the skirting of tongues.</p><p>In Eugene's opinion? It was more of a mixture of him being too offended with the stupidity of others around him and simply being too frightened of saying the wrong thing.</p><p>Therefore the moments he chose to put voice to topics that mattered to him were always far more powerful than he had ever intended them to be. In reflection, Eugene wondered if that was the reason he had always loved him so, first as a friend, then as more. For a man like Merriell Shelton, stoic to a fault, who guarded himself like a starved dog guarded a bone, was not supposed to make those around him feel as deified as Eugene did in that moment. </p><p>Slowly, yet before he had a chance to change his mind, Eugene reached his hand forward, inching the tips of his fingers towards the back of Merriell's hand, careful to labour every movement for terror a sudden movement would make him bolt. </p><p>Merriell watched silently and when he made no move to pull way, emboldened by a lack of withdrawal, Eugene grasped his hand loosely.</p><p>They sat like that for a moment, gaze set unsurely against their joined hands on the table. The room so still that, once again, the ticking from the hallway Grandfather clock echoed audibly around them.</p><p>Eugene ran his thumb lightly over each of his knuckles, swallowing against the thundering of his heart in his chest that was sure to be beating with such a severity it would knock his ribs black and blue. He settled his attention tenderly over the scar on his ring finger.</p><p>'You've still got it.' He mused, eyeing the faded pink lesion that adorned the skin there, recalling the terror inducing moments when shrapnel from a Japanese shell had ricocheted towards his hand, slicing deep into the flesh on one of their earliest days on Okinawa, not long after he was back on his feet following his Malaria. From the way he had screamed out, a man would have guessed his entire finger had been taken off.</p><p>Whether Merriell, too, recalled the situation with as much mirth, he gave no inclination. Instead, he only nodded, wearing an unreadable expression as his eyes sat unshifting from the way Eugene held onto his hand, thumbing running over his knuckles, picking at the blemishes there. He parted his lips as though on the cusp of speaking, perhaps to object to such affection, yet no sound came out.</p><p>Instead, Eugene watched hesitantly as he tucked his cigarette between his lips before reaching his own fingers forward, leaving their intertwined hands together before reaching across the table for his hairline with his other. For a moment, he flinched, for some reason expecting to be stricken about the face, yet no such touch came. Instead, with a gentleness he had forgotten him to possess, he reached instead to push back the slight fringe that hung over his forehead to eye his scalp, bringing into view the centimetre long scar that resided there.</p><p>His fingers were warm to the touch and so achingly familiar that it took every ounce of his control not to slump against them. He had forgotten, it seemed, what a visceral physical impact Merriell had always had on him, the single graze of his fingers instantly quelling the crippling anxiety that had been bubbling ferociously inside his stomach, with such a severity he felt violently nauseous from it. </p><p>He kept his hand there for a moment, touch lingering into the long healed wound as he purveyed it. Eugene met his gaze, recognising the harrowed expression of war behind his eyes as he wondered quite what Merriell remembered. Not just from that fateful afternoon by an Okinawan Bog, but from all of it, the war and the degradation and them. Whether he found himself haunted as much as he was.</p><p>'So do you.' Merriell added, suddenly dropping his hand back to his cigarette, pulling his other hand away as he did so and coiling it protectively around his stomach. His eyes flicked back to the table.</p><p>Eugene found himself helpless but to flinch at the loss.</p><p>A heavy silence fell between them, agonised and pregnant. Neither quite knowing what to say or want to do.</p><p>It would have been comforting in another time. A silence between them.</p><p>They had always managed to relish in silence together, any measure of peace had been so seldom during their time at war that they always savoured the opportunity. If only a ten minute cease of gunfire, a lack of orders. The world never failed to slip away, leaving only enough space for the two of them to remain. Just for a moment. There, together.</p><p>Their own little pocket of time in the corner of some war torn godforsaken country that neither of them could have pointed to on a map if their lives depended on it.</p><p>Just them and their silence, broken only by the low burn of Merriell's cigarette as he smoked and the scrape of a pencil against a page as Eugene sat at his six, looking to rationalise the madness that existed outside their capsule of time. With nothing to say and nothing that needed saying. In fact, he was positive that it had been such moments of stolen tranquility that had kept him sane, kept him from breaking. Sat </p><p>But that was a long time ago and, like the engrained filth that he had been so sure would never wash away, the need for them to relish silence was gone. For the silence seemed endless now, engulfing and the world no longer stood still, but instead, had ground to an agonising halt without them.</p><p>Eugene lifted his hand absently over his mouth, feeling the scrapings of his moustache against his palm. The presence of it made him feel as insecure as a school girl facing her first crush.</p><p>He swallowed. 'You think about it?' He asked quietly. 'The war... us?'</p><p>Merriell did not react, frowning down at the table as though he struggling to articulate his answer. After a moment, he nodded. 'Every day.'</p><p>Eugene matched the movement, allowing the affirmation to settle. He wiped at his nose.</p><p>'Do you still..' He trailed off, a flush of heat itched behind his eyes as he attempted to speak, the threat of tears stinging. He cleared his throat, unable to be sure whether his heart would bear the wrong answer to the question. 'Do you miss me?'</p><p>Without any indication of preamble, Merriell gave a tentative nod. </p><p>'Every day.' He repeated, through gritted teeth, as though such an affirmation physically wounded him to admit. Yet he made no effort to hide such a truth. </p><p>They were sat so close together that Eugene could smell the rum on his lips, the scent of tobacco lingering around his mouth and the warmth of his skin sitting beneath his collar that had remained there all night, grounding him. Yet so harrowing was the unbearable look of sadness that had suddenly arisen behind Merriell's eyes, that Eugene could not ignore it if he tried.</p><p>The response was instinctual, he supposed - as natural to him after all this time as it was to draw breath into his own lungs. At least, that was the only plausible response he could rationalise in his own mind to wipe such a look away from him. To gather the courage, like Merriell had done on that fateful night on the outskirts of the half-drowned, war ravanged Okinawan jungle, to lean forward and kiss him. To gather the courage like he had the first time he had ever made the decision to kiss him back.</p><p>Whether Merriell had anticipated the move he could not be sure, for it was only behind the safety of his eyelids that Eugene had managed such a feat of courage. It was blissful for a moment, just a moment, as he pressed their lips together for the first time. They were softer than he remembered, no longer sun blistered or cracked from his constant gnawing at him, yet so exquisitely the same. </p><p>It was a euphoric like feeling, every ounce of agony and pain instantly lifting away, every measure of suffering from his past three years alleviating as he remembered - this, this was where he belonged.</p><p>It was a euphoria that lasted approximately two seconds before, with a stomach crippling lurch, Eugene realised that the kiss had gone unreciprocated. With an agonising burning of humiliation, he recoiled, making the mistake of glancing towards Merriell. His gaze was firmly set to the floor, shame adorning his dark features, his lips set into a firm line. Sensing Eugene's eyes on him, he shook his head.</p><p>The sickening sense of realisation hit so suddenly that he was winded in the aftermath. It struck him squarely in the chest, worse than a mortal wound. For this was something he would have to live with, a sob caught in his chest and tears burnt ferociously in the back of his eyes as he basked in his own pain, his own humiliation, his own realisation. Whatever he and Merriell had once shared was well and truly over.</p><p>An agonised silence descended, quite unlike anything they had ever shared as Eugene shamefully lowered his own head, his eyes screwed shut in a desperate attempt to keep his tears at bay, to not let on quite how much pain he was currently experiencing. </p><p>He found it impossible not to wonder whether he felt as much of a stranger to Merriell as Merriell did to him in that moment or whether Merriell had ever in his entire life, felt so small. </p><p>As though granting him a reprieve, it was Merriell who broke the silence first. His voice coming out in a rough grunt.</p><p>'Y'got a shower?' He asked, quietly.</p><p>Mutely, Eugene nodded.</p><p>'Can I use it?' He pressed, the scraping of chair legs against the wooden floor indicating that he had arisen from the table.</p><p>Eugene swallowed against the heavy lump in his throat.</p><p>'It's at the top of the stairs.' He murmured. 'I flick the water on for you.'</p><p>With a grunt, Merriell lifted his bag from the floor beside him and turned and left the room; just in time for Eugene's tears to begin to fall.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Poor baby Eugene</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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